


Concurrence

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mental Institutions, Period-Typical Homophobia, Time Travel, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-19 11:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 70,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15509295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: “How did you come to be in this place?”I have no idea what possessed me. Perhaps the sheer exhaustion of transport had weakened my filter. Or maybe it was simply that as I looked at the young doctor sitting opposite me, his face calm and professional, but bored (Shares a flat with a mate, who is seducing his girlfriend. Down on his luck. Evidence: clothing and shoes are good quality, but worn. Had to pawn his bag, but could have gotten more for the watch. Sentimental…) I had a sudden whim to give him an interesting story.I decided that Dr John Watson would at least have something to tell his flatmate tonight when he arrived back at his shabby little flat. Or maybe his girlfriend, if she hadn’t left him yet.And the truth was even more interesting than anything I could make up.





	1. Bedlam (1881)

Wednesday, 19 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Yet another doctor, of course. I knew this even before the man removed his bowler and tweed jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, pulled out a gold pocket watch and took my wrist between his fingers. When he had finished taking my pulse, he took his stethoscope out of his other pocket. _No bag. Curious_. I watched impassively as he placed the tips in his ears and warmed the bell in his hand. Since I was not wearing a shirt, there was no need for him to ask me to raise it.

“Deep breath,” he commanded. “In — out.That’s it.” He moved the scope around, listening to my lungs, and then focused on my heart.

When he had finished that exercise, he looked into my mouth and eyes and felt my neck and abdomen. My skin still glowed and stung a bit from the scrubbing I’d received on my arrival. He raised the towel I was wrapped in and gave my genitalia a cursory look, but did not explore those parts. He checked my reflexes with a small rubber mallet.

He then sat back in his seat, pulled out a notebook and fountain pen, and regarded me. “I am Dr John Watson.” He was a small man with dark blue eyes and blond hair. “Your case has been assigned to me. What is your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” I could think of no reason to conceal my identity. It wasn’t as if he could find anyone who knew me.

He wrote this down. “How did you come to be in this place?”

I have no idea what possessed me. Perhaps the sheer exhaustion of transport had weakened my filter. Or maybe it was simply that as I looked at the young doctor sitting opposite me, his face calm and professional, but bored ( _Shares a flat with a mate, who is seducing his girlfriend. Down on his luck. Evidence: clothing and shoes are good quality, but worn. Had to pawn his bag, but could have gotten more for the watch. Sentimental…)_ I had a sudden whim to give him an interesting story.

I decided that Dr John Watson would at least have something to tell his flatmate tonight when he arrived back at his shabby little flat. Or maybe his girlfriend, if she hadn’t left him yet. And the truth was even more interesting than anything I could make up.

Those tired eyes were watching me intently, pen hovering over the page. “Mr Holmes? Do you remember how you came to be here?”

“I materialised about a half mile from here. An older couple walking their dog found me, and, based on certain things I may have said, decided I was a patient who had escaped from your lovely asylum.”

He looked up from his notebook, his forehead crinkled into a frown. “ _Materialised_? Were you in some non-material state before this happened? A spiritual state, perhaps?” _Humouring me, not taking the piss._

“Only for a fraction of a second,” I assured him. “It’s necessary for the transport, you know. I am quite material now.”

Doctor Watson looked at his notebook, then at his pen, as if they could tell him what to write. “The _transport_ , you say. Where were you before you _materialised_ a half a mile from here?”

“Not _where_ ,” I said, feeling like every science fiction cliche come to life. “ _When._ ”

He wrote a few words in his notebook. “Very well, Mr Holmes. _When_ were you before you materialised here? _Here_ , as in this time frame, in which you now find yourself.”

“I was in the year 2010. I left that time, intending to go back fifty years, to 1960, but I must have overshot my destination.”

“You are a… time traveler,” he said slowly and carefully, not taking his eyes from mine. “From the year _two thousand and ten_.”

“Yes.”

He set his notebook down on the small desk. Reading upside-down, I could see him writing: _hallucinations; delusions_. “Do you know what the current year is, Mr Holmes?”

“Hm. I would say mid to late Victorian. Based on the fashions, that is. And the smog. If I had to guess, I’d say 1880.”

“It’s 1881.”

I smiled. “Good guess, then. I deduce that the British Raj must have begun in India — hence, your moustache. I’m afraid this era is not my specialty, though. Have they found Doctor Livingston yet?”

“Ten years ago,” he replied. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him. Obviously never met him. Long dead in my day, you know.” I grinned at him.

He looked confused. “In your day.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “What does my moustache have to do with anything?”

“Moustaches came into fashion here after India came under British rule. The Indians consider facial hair a sign of virility, so naturally the British tried to play that game. Your moustache, by the way, is quite virile. Very… attractive.” It was an impressive moustache, full but not bushy, the ends artfully twirled. I thought this was a strategic compliment; Dr Watson, however, continued to look puzzled. I nodded. “You have questions.”

“Can you tell me the name of our current monarch?”

“Elizabeth.”

He pressed his lips together, whether to suppress a smile or a grimace, I didn’t know. “Queen Elizabeth,” he said. “Has she time traveled as well?”

“Of course not — Oh, I see. My mistake. I meant Elizabeth _the Second_. But when you said _current monarch,_ you obviously meant _current_ , as in 1881. I’m still a bit groggy from the time shift. That would be Victoria.”

He nodded. “Correct. Do you know where you are?”

“Well, this is London, obviously, and clearly this building is an asylum. I would guess I’m in Bedlam.”

“Do you understand why you’re here, in Bedlam?”

“Hm. Well, it seems that the building in which I was standing when I left 2010 has not yet been built, which put me out behind that pub — the Dog and Duck, I think it was… Interesting… Sorry, you mean, well, why _here_ — I suppose that’s logical, given the things I’m saying to you. You think I’m insane. But other than all the rubbish about time travel I just told you, do I seem insane? Clearly not. So, if you would just release me, I’ll be on my way. Back to 1960. Or maybe 1945. Perhaps I can stop the Cold War altogether. There is the butterfly problem, though.” I was rambling now, talking to myself, as I frequently do. “Good God. I hope I haven’t — Even one small change, if it’s the wrong change —shoot my grandfather, for instance — could change everything.” I hit myself on the forehead. “Idiot. Clearly I’m new to all this. But maybe it’s all right. I’ve been here just a few hours, and the only person I’ve talked to, other than the dog walkers and the nice gentlemen who put me in a straight jacket, is you. Doctor Watson, I presume?” I grinned, hoping he would get my little joke. “You know, _Doctor Livingston, I presume?_ No? Ah, well, never mind.”

He listened patiently, his face composed. _A good strategy, when talking to a madman_. “Mr Holmes, you understand that I’m a doctor—”

“Of course. In fact, you’re an army surgeon. Boer War — no!” I smiled. “You were in Afghanistan.”

Now he looked disturbed. “How would you know that?”

“Elementary, my dear doctor. Sunbathing is not yet fashionable in 1880. Therefore, the tan lines on your neck and at your wrists must be there because you’ve spent a lot of time outdoors. Clearly you are not a day-labourer turned doctor. Hence, you were a doctor who worked outdoors. Military, of course. If it’s 1881, must be the Second Anglo-Afghan War. Were you at Maiwand?”

He looked stunned. “I was! That’s where—”

“— you were wounded. You’ve only recently returned, after several months of convalescence. Right leg?”

“Left shoulder,” he replied.

“Ah, the limp is psychosomatic. Interesting. Which came first, the shoulder or the leg? PTSD, I assume. At any rate, you are working here, in Bedlam, because your practice failed.”

_Annoyance_. “And how would you know that?”

“Why else would a doctor choose to work in Bedlam? He would have to be as crazy as his patients.”

“I am _not_ crazy,” he said somewhat stiffly. “Starting up a practice is expensive. I simply don’t have the funds at present — but why am I telling you this?” He seemed to notice that he was talking to a lunatic. “You must understand that I cannot release you.”

“Why not?”

“You are not — _cannot_ be sane. Your belief that you traveled back in time to arrive here is proof of your insanity.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That time travel is impossible.”

“How am I supposed to do that? If you assert something impossible — well, you simply cannot prove that a thing is _not_ possible based on lack of contrary evidence. If you assert such a thing as time travel, _you_ must prove that it _is_ possible.”

I saw that Dr Watson was not an ordinary doctor. He was clearly a man of science and reason who could not be bluffed by fallacies or twists of logic.

I smiled. “I can prove it.”

He smiled back. “Your presence is no proof, Mr Holmes. The more logical explanation is that you are mad.”

“Good point, doctor. Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is the most credible. Nevertheless, we must eliminate the impossible, i.e. that I am mad. After that, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. What if I could show you my time travel machine?”

“Machine?” He looked interested.

“Of course. The human mind, even in the twenty-first century, has not evolved to allow people to move forwards and backwards in the fourth dimension the way our bodies permit us to move in the third dimension. Therefore, some device must make it possible.”

“And you can show me this device?”

“Yes. I will not reveal its location yet, however. You must accompany me to the site where it is concealed.”

For a moment he looked almost eager, like a small boy who’d been promised a ride in a flying machine. Then the doctor reasserted himself.“No, no. This is not possible, Mr Holmes. You are a patient here and cannot leave until you are well.”

“I am not ill. You, as my doctor, have the power to release me.”

He shook his head. “I cannot in good conscience do that. For your own protection, you need to remain here.” He stood and offered me his hand. “We will talk again, sir.”

* * *

John H. Watson, MD

Date: Wednesday, 19 October 1881

Patient: Sherlock Holmes

Age: unknown. Claims to have been born 6 January 1977. Appears to be around thirty.

Vital Signs: Normal pulse and respiration

Physical Examination: Reveals no abnormalities. The patient is about six feet tall, 11 stone. Thin, but muscular. Normal genitalia. Hair: dark, curly. Eyes: gray.

Physiognomy: High forehead, denoting intelligence. Movement and expression of eyes indicate good observational skills and an acerbic wit. Mouth reveals some deception, but also an aesthetic nature constrained by an ascetic tendency. Roman nose indicates intelligence and firmness of purpose. Hands are long and thin, the fingers delicate; possibly musical or artistic talent. Appears to be English. In spite of his odd speech and even odder claims, he appears to be educated, and a gentleman.

Interview: (Summary follows)

Mr Holmes claims to have suddenly appeared in St George’s Fields, having traveled there from the year 2010. He was able to approximate the current year by observing my clothing. Appears somewhat knowledgable about current events, but was confused when asked about the reigning queen.

He was initially cooperative, but became argumentative* when I refused to release him, insisting that he needed to return to his time machine and travel to the year 1960.

(*Note: tried to turn the tables on me, deducing things** about my career and current situation.)

(**Note: the accuracy of his deductions tells me that I am more transparent than I have supposed. Must guard against letting myself be manipulated by patients.) ***

*** delete this note before writing up official report.

Mentioned _Cold War_ (note: research this). Rambled about butterflies.

Might have killed his own grandfather. Contact family, if any can be found.

Diagnosis: Delusional, seems to have had hallucinations. No paranoia evident.

Prognosis: Further examination necessary to determine whether he is a danger to himself or other people.

* * *

Thursday, 20 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Dr Watson was waiting for me today. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm which he had not unfolded to read. His eyes were bloodshot.

Deduction: _Girlfriend and Flatmate have run off. Girlfriend left a note, explaining his inadequacies. He did not see this coming. Consoled himself with cheap alcohol._

The staff of the hospital had found me some clothes to wear, a collarless shirt, a pair of striped cotton trousers, and an ugly plaid jacket. This was only right, seeing as how they took the clothing I arrived in (even my pants and vest). My new garments are more of a uniform, actually, since all the other inmates seem to wear identical attire. The purpose of such a costume is, I believe, the same reason convicts wear orange jumpsuits — in case of escape, it it obvious that this hideously clothed person is not a regular member of society.

He looked up when I entered. “Good morning, Mr Holmes. How are you feeling today?” His voice was weary.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” He gave me his confused look.

“Your young lady has broken off with you,” I said. Perhaps it would have been kinder to ignore his obvious distress, but I have ever been known for my directness, never my kindness. In fact, people often respond to my brilliant deductions with insults, _piss off_ being the most polite of these. I would not have blamed him if he had told me to piss off.

Instead, he looked at me, his mouth open in wonder. “What did you say?”

“It was the flatmate, wasn’t it?” I pressed.

“How could you possibly —”

“Well, I am from the future,” I said smugly. “I know what will happen. She will marry him, have several children, and lose her figure entirely. He will eventually run off with a hairdresser, be trapped into a land scheme in one of the western territories of the United States (Utah perhaps), and, having lost all his money, be killed by Mormons.” I was inventing this as I spoke, seeing an opportunity to reinforce my time-travel claim and make him feel better at the same time. Why should he make their ugly affair his fault?

He looked even more astonished. And a bit incredulous. “That’s terrible! Though they have humiliated me, I would not wish such a fate on her.” It was clear that he still harboured feelings for the lady. For the flatmate, less.

I elaborated. “All is not lost. By the time she loses her figure, she will have received a small inheritance from her uncle, an African explorer long thought dead. This will enable her to live a bit more stylishly, which will gain her introductions to better society, where she will meet a Russian count who fancies larger women. They will marry and live quite happily until the Revolution, when they will flee to France and set themselves up as restauranteurs. Their restaurant will become quite famous, especially for their blintzes. Even in 2010 people still go to Lyon just to buy blintzes from _Le Blintz d’Amour._ ” Silly name, but at the moment, I could not come up with anything better.

He chewed his lip and looked down at his hands, which were holding his small notebook. “I should have suspected,” he said softly. “This is the story of my life. Always the last to know.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. She was never worthy of you.”

“What do you know about me?” He raised his eyes. I saw sadness there, and a bit of desperation. “Are you an oracle? Can you tell my fortune as easily as theirs?”

“In general, it’s not a good idea to seek to know one’s own future. You know, the Oedipus thing. If I tell you you’re going to kill your father and marry your mother, you’ll be horrified, but then run off and do just that. Better not to know. Just saying.”

“My parents are both dead. The only thing my father left me was this gold watch. And debt.”

I took the watch from his hand and studied it. _Initials HW. Scratched cover, pawnbroker markings._ “Your brother didn’t value this much, did he?”

At his shocked expression, I saw that I had once again earned a _piss off._

“The initials,” I hastened to explain. “Father’s name Henry, perhaps. Or Harold. Older brother would have inherited both name and watch, which, by the way, is a worth a pretty penny, and the fact you have not pawned it — in spite of your somewhat shabby apparel (which indicates you have been down on your luck for a while) — but you haven’t pawned the watch, as I say, because of the sentimental value. Your brother, on the other hand, allowed the case to be marred, probably because, lacking a proper fob, he kept it in his pocket with coins, keys, and such, and further scratched it attempting to wind it each evening whilst intoxicated, and even pawned it at least three times, though he did reclaim it each time, indicating that his fortunes rose and fell —”

“Stop!” he cried. “It is as if you can see inside my brain.”

In his face I could see some emotion, perhaps anger, or pride, or fear — or all three. He stared at me in silence for a long time, and then I saw it. He wanted to believe my story. He wanted me to be real, not just another lunatic.

“You will be happy,” I prophesied. “It will happen, but not where or when you expect.”

I am not an oracle. I did not know this, but it was what he needed to hear, what I needed him to believe, if I was ever to escape this place. It was quite possible that he would never be happy. Some people are born for tragedy. Indeed, he might be hit by a hansom cab tomorrow, or die from a cut that turned septic, or meet a hundred other tragic ends. Victoria’s reign was an age of tragedy — cess pools and cholera, poverty and prison for debtors. Medical science had not fully embraced germ theory. Antibiotics had not yet been invented. Anaesthesia was crude and unreliable. Very few people in 1881 lived happy lives.

But perhaps John Watson could be happy, I thought. Perhaps, in exchange for what I might talk him into, I could make him so.

Tears stood in his eyes.

“You will be happy,” I repeated. “May I see that newspaper? If you’re done with it, that is.”

* * *

John H Watson, MD

Date: Thursday, 20 October 1881

Patient: Sherlock Holmes

Second interview (Summary):

Mr Holmes began by deducing that the young lady I’d been courting had left me. Though it was inappropriate to let the patient take hold of the interview in this manner, I found myself unable to maintain a professional demeanour. I know that a physician is supposed to leave behind his own circumstances, but I could not—

Damn it all! Mary’s departure was most unpredictable. That my flatmate, Mr Trevor, should not see how ungentlemanly it was to steal her affections — but I have only myself to blame. Why should a woman with her many graces bestow her affection on a man like me — in debt, without position, without connections —

Mr Holmes did not explain how he divined what had happened. I was not aware that I was wearing my heart on my sleeve, but perhaps I was a bit depressed. As I said in yesterday’s notes, I need to learn to be less transparent. Not only did he divine that she had left me, he predicted a terrible conclusion to her decision to go with Trevor. Much as I am disappointed and grieved by her actions, I do not wish her harm. As for Trevor, he will reap what he has sown.

(Note: None of these conclusions must go into the final transcript of this patient’s record. Strike the previous two paragraphs.)

Mr Holmes clearly has deductive gifts. He examined my father’s pocket watch and was able to describe my brother’s unhappy fate, and explained to me how he deduced each part of it. He is very observant, very clever.

Diagnosis: It is clear that Mr Holmes is intelligent and aware of the world around him. Though he appears delusional in his notion that he comes from a future time, there is no evidence that he hallucinates, beyond the one fixed delusion he maintains. He is alert and his reactions are appropriate. I am inclined to believe that he is harmless, and that his insanity, if it exists, is but a gentle madness.

Prognosis: I have no doubt that he will make his way in the world. He is intelligent and practical enough to find himself a means of living. Whether he will be stable enough to maintain his living, I do not know. I will undertake further interviews until data can be collected and analysed.


	2. A Little Drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a case, two out of ten at most.

Sunday, 23 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

I have not seen my doctor for several days, whether because his personal life has fallen into shambles, or because I have been assigned a new doctor, I do not know. Today is Sunday (I deduced this from the visit of a priest, who attempted to expel demons from me and my fellow unfortunates). Thus, I have no way of finding out where my doctor has gone. I hope that I will see him again. He was beginning to grow on me, and I would at least like to know that he has not done something desperate and foolish. And I do not relish breaking in someone with less imagination.

It would be fascinating, this inside view of nineteenth century medicine, were I not one of its victims. All sorts of ailments are contained here. I had expected chains and straight jackets, but there is actually not much of that. Instead, the current philosophy seems to be lots of fresh air and good food (and occasional demon exorcisms). They seem to think that poor nutrition and London’s poisonous fogs are responsible for everything from mental retardation to autism to schizophrenia. I met a man today who I am sure has a thyroid deficiency; if that could be treated, he might be well. I suspect another patient has some sort of heavy metal poisoning, probably lead. These things mimic mental illness.

I am tempted to offer my diagnosis to the staff, but who will believe a madman? It creates a sort of logic problem: _if patients always lie, and doctors always see the truth, how are diagnoses made?_

I cannot save everyone in this place, much less the entire age. Though my presence here may alter history in some way, large or small, what is most likely is that I will die in this place and be buried in an unmarked grave out back, with a century or more of people who never had a chance.

When I think about it, this must have been his plan — to send me to a time and place where I would undoubtedly be thrown in a bin like Bedlam and rot away without affecting any other bits of history, leaving him free rein to work his mischief. This realisation puts me into a dark place. I sit in a brightly lit room where patients like myself — the catatonic schizophrenics, the mentally deficient, the epileptics, the sufferers of syphilis and dementia, and the clinically depressed, all restrained or medicated so we won’t be a danger to ourselves or anyone else — where the likes of us can gently pass our days unaffected by the world outside, and I think of 2010, where a madman goes free, building his havoc machine, and the people who knew me have undoubtedly decided I am dead. Perhaps I am, and this is hell.

I think, too, of another man, the little doctor who wants to believe me. He may be my Orpheus, leading me out of this underworld. Do not look back, Watson. I will follow you.

* * *

Monday, 24 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

My doctor looks terrible. Though he tried to maintain his professional decorum, he was clearly distraught over the departure of his cheating girlfriend, who I judge to be an unfeeling whore. That is harsh, I know, since I have never met her, but Dr Watson is not the kind of man who deserves such treatment. Why do women always go after the rogues, leaving the good ones behind? I do not know how any woman could fail to find Dr Watson an acceptable lover.

Things grow worse and worse for the man. He cried a bit, admitting he had spent the night on the streets. Believing Trevor (that’s the flatmate) to be an honest man, he had been paying him his monthly portion of the rent with the expectation that Trevor was keeping them current. It turns out that he has not paid the landlord in two months, and when Watson returned to the flat Saturday, all of his things had been set out on the street, where every last scrap of clothing was taken — and a good deal else besides.

“My books, my papers — everything — gone.” He tried to stifle a sob, but clearly hadn’t enough energy for self-control. “I took a room in a boarding house this morning. I have only a couple shillings to my name, and I don’t receive my pay from the asylum until the end of the month, nearly two weeks from now.”

He was, I could see, too proud to ask for help from a colleague or friend.

“Doctor,” I said. “How much will you need to make ends meet until the end of the month — to be able to eat and pay your rent?”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “If I give up tobacco and beer, five shillings, perhaps. That would cover rent for two weeks, and the boarding house provides breakfast. I can get by on breakfast and a light supper. I may need to buy some… smallclothes.” He blushed. “Well, I can hardly wear the same items every day without spares to wear whilst these are washed and dried.” This made me sad, to think of the doctor in his shabby room, washing his drawers in a basin, forgoing his evening meal to buy laundry soap.

I pulled out the paper he had given me the previous day. “I can get more than that for you.” I turned to the personals, where I had marked an ad. “Contact this person and tell her you would like to meet to discuss her situation. Make sure she knows you’re a doctor. I’m almost certain that you will get an interview. When you have done this, report back to me.”

He read the ad:

_Any person who, in a confidential manner, can provide information on an item of jewellery that was lost on the night of October the 15 th at the Winslet Hotel, is advised to contact Miss M at ____._

“Why is it important that she know I’m a doctor?”

“It increases your credibility. You’re not just some ruffian off the street looking for easy money. Doctors deal with confidentiality on a daily basis; she will trust you.”

“What should I ask her?”

“She will tell her story, how the item was lost, whom she suspects, what her theories about it are. If anything sounds odd, ask about it. Use common sense, of course, but follow your instincts. I will send you back with a solution, and you will claim the reward.”

Watson looked sceptical. “How will you find this solution, locked away in this place?”

“I already have six ideas about it. You will be my eyes and ears. Look, listen, and record.”

* * *

John H Watson, MD

Monday, 24 October, 1881

Patient: Sherlock Holmes

Third Interview (Summary):

I fear that my own problems are biasing my dealings with the patient. He has been most kind in his advice about my ordeal, and has even offered a solution to my temporary cash shortage. I am curious to see if it works.

On his advice, I contacted a Miss M who placed an ad in the paper about a missing piece of jewellery. She wrote back at once, asking me to stop by this afternoon. Having now seen the lady, I am writing up my notes on that interview here.

When I told Miss M my name and said that I had come in response to her ad, believing I could be of assistance, she was sceptical, but agreed to talk to me privately, with assurances that everything said would be kept confidential. We retreated to her private sitting room.

Miss M is actually Mrs Jacob Gerhardt, Mabel being her Christian name. She is a lovely woman, much younger-looking than her husband (whom I saw in a photograph). They have been married three years.

Mr Gerhardt owns a successful company whose business is importing wine from the continent. The item in question was a necklace, a gift from her husband, which she was wearing on the evening when it was lost. Whilst her husband was out of the country for several days, she arranged to have dinner with a potential client, a restaurateur, at the Winslet. She and the client then returned to the Gerhardt home, where they spent an hour in the drawing room, discussing details of the proposed contract. Her staff — a housekeeper, cook, and a maid — were in the house at the time of this meeting. The man left at around ten. It was that evening, as she prepared for bed, that she discovered the necklace was missing. Her husband will be most disturbed to learn that it has been lost, she said. She did not notice whether she was wearing it when they left the hotel.

The client’s name is Emil Laurent, and this was her first meeting with him, she says. She has kept the missing necklace a secret from her staff, on the chance that one of them took it, or that one of them might mention it to her husband. She would not saywhom she suspects.

Mrs Gerhardt seems reluctant to accuse Laurent, however, though he seems the logical culprit. She is rather nervous about her husband learning that the necklace is lost. I wonder: could she be having an affair?

* * *

Tuesday, 25 October, 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Dr Watson reported back to me on his interview with Miss M. Like most people, he sees, but does not observe. He listens, but does not hear.

This is not to say he is unintelligent, merely that he shares the prejudices of this age. He thinks Mrs Gerhardt innocent and wronged because she is beautiful, her husband a brute because he is older and ugly. He believes the dashing Monsieur Laurent has seduced her and is possibly blackmailing her, holding the necklace as ransom.

This case is a three, at best. To me, the solution is fairly obvious, but I will not spoil the doctor’s fun.

“Did you not talk with the household staff?” I asked when he had summarised the conversation.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I arrived a bit early and waited in the kitchen for Mrs Gerhardt to return from an errand. The cook gave me tea and a sandwich.”

“Tell me about them. Describe them in detail.”

He looked surprised, and then his eyes widened. Then he gave me a canny look. “I see. We must rule them out as suspects.”

“Naturally. We must make a differential diagnosis, Doctor, and rule out what the disease cannot be before we can focus on what it is.”

He chuckled at that, and I was surprised at how glad I felt to hear him laugh.

To return to our investigation, however: his descriptions included many irrelevant details, and I will not bother recording all the probing questions I had to ask him in order to get to what I needed to know.

To summarise Watson’s impressions: the cook, Mrs MacDonough, is a cheerful, stout widow of about fifty with a motherly way about her. (“Could have been my own mother, God rest her soul.”) The housekeeper, Miss Weber, is a tall, stern German woman in her mid-forties who runs the house _with an iron fist_ , to use his cliche. (“A bit scary, that woman. Might have been one of those spinster teachers who are always finding a hand to smack with the ferrule.”) The lady’s maid is a lovely sweet girl with pretty ways—

“Did she flirt with you, Watson?”

“What? Flirt? Me?” He was turning pink. I was beginning to find his modesty endearing.

“Would you describe her as a _coquette_?”

“I suppose,” he said, still flushed. “But that word implies something devious and petty. This girl’s charm was ingenuous, clearly springing from an honest, uncomplicated nature and —”

“I see.” And I did. Here was something worth pursuing. “Return to the house. You may need to watch and see that Mr and Mrs Gerhardt are not at home. Come to the kitchen door as you did before. Be yourself — charm the ladies. Find out anything you can about Laurent. Household staff always know a good deal more than their employers suspect and will gossip if they find a kindred spirit. You must be that spirit. Find out how often she goes out of the house, what, if any, regular visitors they have. Do not be obvious; let them lead the conversation. I expect they will have a theory about the necklace.”

He nodded. “What about Mrs Gerhardt?”

“Yes, you should speak with her again. Tell her you need to know when each person joined the household, who recommended them, and which would have access to her room, particularly her jewellery. Find out who was in the house that night and whether the staff had any visitors of their own.” I was a bit surprised that Watson hadn’t thought to ask this on his first visit, but he seemed to be quickly catching on. “Do not let on that you are pumping her staff for information.”

“Whom do you suspect, Holmes?”

“I suspect everyone of something,” I said. “But it would be better if I did not let on where my thoughts are leading. I do not want to prejudice your conversations.”

* * *

John H Watson, MD

Tuesday, 25 October 1881

Patient: Sherlock Holmes

My patient seems a bit edgy. His vitals are all normal and he no longer talks of time travel. Yesterday he seemed a bit melancholy. Today he was more animated as he questioned me about my interview with Mrs Gerhardt.

I am sent back to the Gerhardt home to continue the investigation. I think Holmes was a bit disappointed in my first observations. I told him my thought that Laurent is having an affair with the lady, but he rejected this, I know not why. I did not dare ask because the wheels of his brain were spinning so quickly that I quite expected to see smoke coming out of his ears.

My own situation continues the same. I have spent my last shilling. My room is paid up through Saturday, and other than breakfast, my only meals are whatever I can scrounge. I hope that Mrs MacDonough will feed me again when I visit the Gerhardts this afternoon.

I did not sleep well last night. The boarding house is noisy, and in a part of town where drunken revelry punctuated by random screaming goes on late into the night. I do not see an end to this miserable existence, either. Even if Holmes can get me enough cash to continue for a few more weeks, my pay here at the hospital is not sufficient to afford a decent flat unless I can find another person to split the rent with me. After my last experience, I am not eager to seek another flatmate.

* * *

Wednesday, 26 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Watson looked eager when they brought me into the consulting room. Clearly he had some news.

“I have more information!” he said with a conspiratorial grin. “I think I know who did it!”

I smiled at his excitement. “Tell me all.”

“I spoke with Mrs MacDonough at length. She says that Mr Laurent is handsome, wealthy, obviously French, and has nice manners. As I did not meet him myself, I can not describe him more accurately than this. He is a new client of the Gerhardts, she said, and had not been to the house before the evening in question. She had not heard the Gerhardts speak of him.

“I also spoke with Marie. There is some intrigue among these women, Holmes. I am certain of it. Marie feels that Miss Weber treats her unfairly. Mrs MacD said that Miss Weber is strict, but fair.She told me, confidentially, that Marie has a child out of wedlock whom she supports, poor girl.”

“How long has each woman been in the Gerhardt’s employ?” I asked.

“The housekeeper has been there longest; she was Mr Gerhardt’s housekeeper before his marriage. The cook was hired soon after they married, and came highly recommended by several friends. Marie was only recently employed, sent by an agency.”

“And their access to the upstairs rooms?”

“The housekeeper is the only one with keys to the entire house. The cook has access to the downstairs, but never goes upstairs as she has bad knees and it is not necessary for her to visit those rooms. The maid has access to Mrs Gerhardt’s room and her own, which is on the third floor.

“When the cook left for the market, Marie told me more,” he said, leaning forward as if we might be overheard. “She told me, confidentially, that Miss Weber resents Mrs Gerhardt because she is in love with Mr Gerhardt. _She is old and plain and will never marry_ , Marie said. And Mr Gerhardt is paying her a very generous salary. Perhaps she knows something scandalous and is blackmailing him.”

“Did you speak with Miss Weber?” I asked.

“She greeted me when I arrived, but left me in the kitchen.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, Holmes — do you suspect Marie? I must say, the girl does not seem like a thief. Poor thing, abandoned by a rogue, supporting a child. I cannot believe she would take a chance like this—”

“Why? Because she is charming? Because she has a child? Because you feel sorry for her?”

“Well, being charming does not preclude her innocence,” he said.

“You have a point, Watson. Just not a very good one.”

“And having a child to provide for would make her more cautious, would it not?”

“Or more reckless. Women have been known to kill to protect their children.”

He did not take offence at my criticism. Indeed, he still seemed as keen as ever to solve the mystery. “I have to say, Holmes, my money is on the housekeeper.”

“Then you will lose your money,” I said, smiling. “Go back tomorrow. Tell Mrs Gerhardt that Marie took the necklace — with the assistance of Mr Laurent.”

His mouth dropped open. “And how will I prove this to them?”

“Contact the police. Tell them what you suspect and have them pick up Mr Laurent, who has probably figured out by now that it is not valuable and will try to get rid of it. Have them search Marie’s room as well.”

“Not valuable? Why on earth would she advertise for its return if it is not valuable?”

“For the same reason you have not pawned your father’s watch, which is valuable, though you sorely need the money.”

“Sentiment.” He nodded. “Well, I hope you are correct.”

* * *

John H Watson, MD

Wednesday, 26 October 1881

Patient: Sherlock Holmes

The patient is perfectly healthy. As he has been here a week without incident, I have started the paperwork to have him released.

On a personal note, I will be rather sorry to see him go. I am a bit worried, too, as he cheerfully admits that he has no place to go. 

At any rate, our case has concluded (in a rather spectacular manner) and we have received our reward. Naturally, we will split it, as we are both going to need money.

I went to the Gerhardt home after work today and was shown into the drawing room where Mr and Mrs Gerhardt were having tea. The lady immediately invited me to sit and asked Miss Weber to bring another cup.

“I was just explaining to my husband the situation that made me seek your help.”

I was surprised, having assumed that she was trying to conceal the theft from her husband.

“Mr Gerhardt is aware of the missing item, then?”

She nodded. “It is still missing, however.”

Mr Gerhardt spoke. “The necklace has only a small value. I cannot see why anyone would take it.”

“I can answer that,” I said. “I believe I have solved your little mystery. As for the location of the item—”

Just then the housekeeper entered the room, trailed by a weeping Marie.

“Sir,” she said, speaking to Mr Gerhardt, “I believe I have found the thief.”

Marie wept and protested her innocence most pitiably, but the girl had been caught putting the necklace in Miss Weber’s drawer. “I did not take it! Why would I do such a thing? I found it in the hallway — I thought it belonged to Miss Weber—”

No sooner had she cried out her protest than the doorbell rang. A constable stood holding Mr Laurent, who was in cuffs. “This gentleman was caught with a great deal of stolen jewellery. Having been notified by a Dr Watson that he may have stolen Mrs Gerhardt’s necklace, I took the liberty of bringing him here with his stash.”

“I’m Dr Watson,” I said at once — a bit eagerly, I’m afraid, not being content to see my reward entirely disappear as the mystery unraveled itself.

Laurent snarled at Marie (just like a romantic villain, I thought), “You stupid girl! I told you it was worthless. You should have dropped it in the Thames when I told you. But you had to try your little drama—”

“And we have found the necklace,” said Mrs Gerhardt, taking the item from the housekeeper’s hand. “Thank you, Bertha. What would I do without you?”

The housekeeper bowed stiffly and returned to her duties.

Mr Gerhardt frowned at the thieves. “It appears that these two are confederates.”

The constable left with Laurent and Marie. Mrs Gerhardt took the necklace in her hand, examining it for damage. “Thank goodness,” she murmured. “My dear, I am so happy.”

Mr Gerhardt offered me two crowns, which I took. “To compensate you for your trouble,” he said. It was less than I had hoped for, but I was in no position to refuse.

* * *

Thursday, 27 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Dr Watson laid two coins on the desk between us. His face, however, did not show much joy.

“How much are these worth?” I asked, examining the coin. “It’s a crown, is it not?”

“Each is worth five shillings. Ten shillings can cover two weeks' expenses, if I’m careful. But half of this is yours.”

“I have no living expenses, Watson.” I smiled at his downcast look. “I live like a king here, with food laid before me, a bed to sleep in, and this extravagant wardrobe.”

He smiled wanly. “I have done the paper work for your release. I thought it was the least I could do, after you helped me.”

“On what grounds am I to be released?”

He shrugged. “I may have been less than truthful. I said that you are no threat, which is true. I don’t believe you are insane, at least not violently so. I also told them you have family who will take you in, so you won’t be on the streets.”

“I suppose I may have a couple ancestors living. If I remember my family tree—”

“You may stay with me until you find your footing,” he said. “It’s a very small room with few furnishings, but my rent is paid through Saturday, and my landlady will not know if an extra person sleeps in my room.”

“That is very kind of you. I had not expected—”

“It’s nothing. Obviously you know how to support yourself. A man like you could make a great deal of money in London, where crimes are committed every day.”

“What about you?”

“I have enough to live on until I am paid.”

I had another idea, but thought it best to wait until I could find my footing, as he put it. “I will need my clothing.”

He nodded. “I’ll check with the laundry and see if they kept what you arrived in.”

He returned some time later with the suit I’d been wearing, my shirt and shoes. The laundry process had nearly ruined my suit. The socks and underwear had, apparently, disappeared, so he brought me used (laundered) replacements. He had also brought me a tie, without which I would lookas odd as a prime number that’s not two (math joke; he didn’t laugh). I would look like a madman, he said. Asylum inmates wear no ties, presumably, because they might either hang themselves or strangle their guards. Even the poorest men wear ties, as all wish to be upwardly mobile. It is the hallmark of sanity and reason in this age.

I would be somewhat out of fashion in my ruined Dolce and Gabbana suit (imagine that), but not obviously out of time. Men’s clothing had changed somewhat, but suits similar to mine were starting to come into style. I resolved to check a used clothing store and acquire some items as soon as I had money.

We walked out of the hospital into the dusk. “Let’s buy ourselves dinner,” I suggested. “We need to celebrate my freedom — and the successful completion of your first case.”

We went across the street to the Dog and Duck, where we settled in with a couple pints of the house brew and ordered bowls of beef stew with bread.

After we had taken a few swallows of beer, I spoke. “Watson, you’re not happy.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I knew your solution would be correct, but it does not satisfy me.”

“You initially suspected Laurent, which turned out to be correct,” I said. “How are you not satisfied?”

“I wanted it to be the housekeeper,” he said. “It is clear that she does not care for Mrs Gerhardt. She is a bitter woman, as Marie said. I had imagined she would try to blame Marie. I even thought she might plant the necklace in the girl’s drawer. That it should be so completely opposite to what I imagined—”

I smiled. “You’re a writer, and the story you imagined is, in many ways, more satisfying. You see this domestic drama as a romance, and colour each character in a way that suits the story. Marie is your tragic heroine, your Fantine, toiling to support her fatherless infant. You need her to be innocent if your story is to work. But real life isn’t a story. Things rarely come to a satisfactory conclusion. Or, better put, what is satisfying for one party will always leave another party dissatisfied.”

He looked thoughtful. “I suppose — but how would you know that I am a writer?”

“You wept when your papers were lost. Most men see paper as something important only when it’s financial. They do not weep over lost paper.”

“It does not matter,” he said, his eyes filling once more. “My stories have all been rejected. Too fantastic, the _Messenger_ said. _The Fortnightly_ called it _trash._ ”

“Perhaps the public is not yet ready for fantastic fiction — Monsieur Verne’s novels notwithstanding,” I said. “You may simply not have found your niche yet. Have you read any of Mr Poe’s works?”

“He is not to my taste. Too macabre.”

“The world may be ready for a new type of novel, which he has pioneered: the detective story.”

He nodded. “ _Murders in the Rue Morgue_.”

“Just think of it, Watson! I will solve crimes, and you will turn them into popular literature.”

“I am not a good enough writer,” he said. “You must be able to see that I have no head for analysis. I would have made the wrong person a villain.”

“That’s the genius of it,” I assured him. “Your reactions are what will sell the story. Think of it as a game, Watson, or a puzzle. The people are merely pieces. Imagine that we are watching a game of chess, but know nothing about the rules. You are looking at the shape of each piece, thinking that the horse-shaped piece is somehow going to act like a horse. I am analysing how each piece moves. The reader will identify with your perspective, and be surprised at the solution I provide. Readers want romance —and are happily surprised at logic.”

Our meal arrived and for a few minutes we ate in silence.

“I see your point,” he said at last. “But this case hardly merits an entire novel. For that, I think, we would need a murder.”

“Don’t let this one case disappoint your hopes,” I said. “It was, frankly, boring and easily solved, hardly worthy of my talents. A drawing room comedy, perhaps, but no mystery. I can provide you with stories much more interesting. Fortunately, London is full of murders. Every day, a new romance, a dead body, an unlikely culprit.”

Watson gave me a bitter smile. “You seem a bit gleeful, Holmes. Does the thought of dead bodies fill you with so much joy?”

“At this point, I am more concerned about food in my belly and a roof over my head,” I said. “Though I do love solving a good murder.”

He laughed. “Well, we’ve both been fed, and for two more nights we have a roof. As for murder — we can always hope.”

As we finished our meal, I wondered whether my conclusions about John Watson were correct. Here was a man who had lied to spring me from the asylum, had offered me a place to sleep, and had no business doing either of those things. It was not to his advantage to share what little he had. He had much to lose, but was taking a risk with me. Far from craving security, here was a man who loved risk and danger.

“Tomorrow, I want to show you something,” I said.


	3. Savages

Friday, 28 October 1881 / John H Watson

I am no longer going to pretend that this is anything other than a diary of my own thoughts and reactions. Mr Holmes is currently free, a guest of my poor hospitality. We used some of our meagre earnings from the missing necklace to purchase dinner, the first real meal I have enjoyed in a week.

He took me to see a flat at 221B Baker Street. The address alone says that it is beyond our means. But he grew almost tearful at the sight of bedroom, sitting room, kitchen, and modern bath.

“This is my home,” he said in a trembling voice. “In 2010, here is where I will live.”

For several days, he had not mentioned time travel. I confess that I had wanted badly to believe that he had traveled hither from the year 2010. I myself have written a story where the protagonist, a doctor from the year 1881, returns to ancient Greece and not only stops the plague from killing Pericles, ~~but thereafter continues to live in a society where men may freely~~ — 

I am crossing out the last sentence. ~~It does not seem prudent to admit to such feelings~~. And the sentence just written, as well. Now that I think of it, I could not expect such a story to be published by the Messenger or the Fortnightly.

(To be honest, when he said he had something to show me, I had hoped he might produce the time machine he had referred to at our first meeting. I am embarrassed to admit that part of me wanted to believe that such a machine could exist. I’m afraid I am prone to credulity, especially where it concerns the fantastic themes that my writing has gravitated towards.)

At any rate, Holmes was visibly moved by the sight of his former lodgings, and I imagined that the flat was much changed by the year 2010, over a century and a quarter in the future, if I am to believe him. He commented on the wallpaper, the floors, the furnishings. He told me what furnishings stood in each room, and how many lodgers had left their mark therein.

This is a rather new building, built just four years ago. The flats have running water and flush toilets. He seemed amused by my reaction to the water closet, and I explained that I’d never been able to afford a flat with these conveniences, which have only become common since the cholera epidemic of 1854. I listened patiently as the landlord described the pains that had been taken to make this flat both sanitary and affordable.

“How much?” I asked.

When he gave the answer, I could not help but let out a surprised squeak.

“Is that a lot?” asked Holmes.

“It is,” I replied.

I suggested neighbourhoods where the rents would be within a more affordable range, and he promised we would look at other options tomorrow.

 

Saturday, 29 October 1881 / John H Watson

I do not have the words to describe this day. I will, nevertheless, try.

Sherlock Holmes slept in my shabby room last night. The bed is scarcely large enough for one adult, and he stipulated at once that he would sleep in the chair. I did not envy him, but knowing that I needed sleep before another day of work at the asylum, I did not invite him to share the bed. Neither of us would have slept well in that narrow space.

I turned off the light at somewhere around ten and quickly fell asleep, exhausted after a long day of patients. The events of the day replayed in my mind. One old woman had insisted on taking off all of her clothing and squatting on the floor, claiming to be an Indian squaw. A young man repeatedly entreated me to pour water on him, insisting that he was on fire. Another woman screamed about devils when I took out my notebook and pen, God only knows why. Then there was the weary parade of unfortunates who cannot speak and seem unaware of their surroundings. Occasionally they will react to some stimulus, but there is seemingly no cure for them. Neither fresh air nor exercise or wholesome food effect any change in them, though these are much more humane treatments than they could have expected a few decades ago. It is both hopeless and exhausting to treat these patients, and I often feel like Sisyphus, rolling his boulder uphill all the day, only to have it roll to the bottom each evening.

All night I dreamed of toiling behind that boulder, awakening at dawn to find my roommate’s knees in my back, and myself about to fall on the floor, so close to the edge of the mattress was I.

Add to all of this, the fact that when I saw my first patient, I realised that I had misplaced my pocket watch. Assuming that I had left it at the boarding house, I hoped that Holmes had secured it.

Today was a half-day shift for me, so I hoped to hurry back to the flat and make sure my roommate hadn’t burned anything down or pawned what little I have left. As I was putting my coat on, I received a summons from Dr Wooten, the physician in charge. When he finally came to the point, it was about my employment. It seems that budget cuts lie in the future of the asylum, and as I am the last hired, I will be the first fired, should employees need to be let go. Marvellous.

Then I was caught at the door by an attendant insisting that I see one of my patients, who had taken a mop from the cleaner’s bucket and was thrusting it like a pike at anyone who approached.

At last I fled, signing out from my shift and quickly setting out for the boarding house.

Holmes had left me a note. _221B Baker Street_.

After spending hours in the company of insane people, I am on my way there now, expecting to meet up with my own personal madman, Sherlock Holmes.

 

Saturday, 29 October 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Dr Watson is not pleased with me. That is a gross understatement. He is very angry, and refuses to speak to me.

Poor John. He has not had a break this week, what with me crawling into the bed with him last night (I was cold) and stealing his watch this morning (for a good reason).

To be honest, he did not seem disturbed by my presence in his bed. In fact, until he awoke to the fact that I was curled up against him, he was dead to the world. On awakening in the wee hours, he mumbled, “Lemme sleep.” I did, though I am not responsible for what my hands might have done in the night.

The rooms on Baker Street are exactly what we need — spacious, clean, and much newer (and cheaper) than they will be in 2010. The upper room is not yet opened, I noted. The entire third floor is just a lumber room now, but if Watson insists, I will see if they can open up room for him up there. If not, I am content to sleep with him. This bed will quite amply accommodate the two of us. It’s the nineteenth century. Sodomy is still illegal, but I assume sharing a bed is commonplace for people on limited incomes.

The reason he is not speaking to me has to do not with sodomy, but with his watch, which enabled me to pay for the first month’s rent on the flat. The rent is still beyond our means, but I am certain that within a few days I will have the money to get his watch back from the pawnbroker and an income that will allow us to continue renting the flat. He is less optimistic that I can do this, and shared his point of view with a surprising amount of profanity. I will have to make good on my promise, or plan to sleep on the sofa until I do.

“Soon, John,” I tell him. “I will recover it.I already have several cases pending which should be sufficient to—”

“Holmes,” he says, severely.“As we are not intimates, I would ask you not to address me by my Christian name.”

I do not remind him that we shared a very narrow bed last night, which might be characterised as _intimate_. I am just grateful that he has resumed speaking to me.

 

Wednesday, 2 November 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Now that I have acquired a few cases to solve, I find my days more interesting. A recent case led me to several dealers in old books and manuscripts. This era is a treasure trove for book and art collectors, with many hidden gems among the carts that line the streets. Another case introduced me to the art of ale-making. I have set up several batches of brew in the basement, an experiment to be enjoyed in a few months, I hope.

I have worked with the local police on several cases, and find their methods primitive. The most interesting cases teach me something. The least interesting ones are the same story I have seen so often in my own era — cheating spouses, fights over property, jealous siblings, feuding neighbours.

I am working hard to accumulate coins, the sooner to pay off my good doctor. I have had to buy clothing, however, and even at shops specialising in used apparel, it is not cheap. Most people do not have large wardrobes. In one hundred and twenty-nine years, my closet will be full of suits and dress shirts, my drawers full of neatly indexed socks and _smallclothes_ , as Watson refers to undergarments. Clothing is not made in Bangladesh and Viet Nam; though the industrial revolution has made it possible for ordinary folk to own several suits of clothing, it is all made locally. A coat like my beloved Belstaff would cost me no less than two pounds, which is more than most people make in a six-day work week. To think that I regularly spent two pounds at Starbucks in 2010…

 

Tuesday, 8 November 1881 / John H Watson

I shall have to go looking for new employment after the holidays, though heaven knows when I can find the time to do this. At least I have been given fair warning.

Holmes stays quite busy, keeping irregular hours and inviting all sort of irregular people into our flat — clients, he calls them. I do not complain, as I often see them place coins in his hand. Though he has not yet replaced my watch, patience is my only option. Blood cannot be squeezed from a turnip. Holmes is a most talented turnip, a sort of brilliant fool, and I believe he will find a way to buy my watch out of hock, even if he has to go to some lengths to accomplish it.

Sometimes he invites me to walk with him, to show him parts of the city he desires to see. If we have a bit of cash, we stop for some refreshment. When we are broke, which is our usual state, we window shop, walking among the stalls of booksellers and art dealers, perusing fountain pens and pocket watches. He tells me what buildings have been torn down in 2010, which have been repurposed. He looks at cornerstones and street signs with great interest, amazed at how much difference a hundred and twenty-odd years can make. I try to imagine myself strolling through the streets of Samuel Johnson’s London.

He has replaced his rather odd garments with trousers, waistcoat, and morning coat found at a thrift store. He looks the part of a gentleman, though one of limited means. Fortunately, he has a physique that is flattered even by second-hand clothes. I would love to see him in evening clothes, perhaps tails and a silk top hat, impractical as such an extravagance would be at this time. Instead, he has opted for an Inverness coat (somewhat shabby but practical) and a deerstalker hat.

His methods are unorthodox. He listens carefully to his clients’ stories, asks a few pointed questions, and then, once they have left, retreats into his own mind, oblivious to my attempts at conversation and my comings and goings, unaware of how much time has passed. Then he will suddenly come to himself, launch out of his chair and pace the room, talking to himself and occasionally asking me questions. “Did you notice the sleeves?” he’d ask me. Or, “What do you make of her freckles?”

After the pacing, the muttering, and the odd questions, he often rushes out of the house and does not return until I am in bed. As we are still sharing the one bed, this is somewhat inconvenient. On his return, he may be talkative, rousing me from slumber. Or he may be silent, and then I wonder what he has been up to. Most of his cases involve missing property, which does not satisfy him.

“Murder, Watson — murder should be our bread and butter!” he complained one night. “A corpse, a corpse! My kingdom for a corpse!”

This made me chuckle, though it did not resolve the ongoing issue of the window, which he had just slammed shut.

“Why must you keep the window open in November?” he asked. “It’s freezing outside. The advantage of being indoors is that the temperature can be kept comfortable — or could be, if you would not insist on bringing the outdoors into the indoors.”

I had explained it before, but he refuses to accept the necessity of circulating the air. “Carbonic acid* poisoning, Holmes,” I patiently reminded him. “Shall we be asphyxiated in our bed?”

At this, he climbed into the aforementioned bed, making sure to put his icy feet on my side. “Pseudo-science, my dear Watson. Bollocks. Codswallop. Balderdash.”

“Where are your bedsocks?” I asked him, shivering.

“An experiment,” he muttered.

I did not ask him what this meant. He was always experimenting on whatever he could get his hands on. Now, perhaps, he was testing how quickly my feet could warm his. I got out of bed and re-opened the window.

“If only I had a microscope,” he said. “Though it would not be as powerful as the one I left in 2010, I suppose, it would be useful. Perhaps I will visit the lab at Bart’s tomorrow.”

I gave up on sleep and opened my cigarette case.

“Speaking of asphyxiation,” he said, eyeing my cigarette. “In the twentieth century, cigarettes will be discovered to be a leading cause of lung cancer.”

“Cancer!” I said, laughing.

“Most unhealthy,” he said, helping himself to one. “Tobacco contains nicotine, a highly-addictive drug. And when burned, cigarettes fill the lungs with tar. You know that black stuff that lies on every surface of this infernal town? Imagine that all over your lungs, Doctor.”

I used the hearth-tongs to pick an ember from the hearth and lit our cigarettes. “I suppose your century has a cure for cancer.”

“Treatments, but no cure. Too many kinds of cancer, all of them behaving differently. The most popular treatment involves chemotherapy, a kind of gradual poisoning.”

“Poison? Barbaric.”

“Yes, it is.” He looked thoughtful. “I expected to find your century so much more barbaric than my own. It turns out, the barbarity of humans depends on no particular time or space. We are all savages. We may cloak our savagery in a lounge suit or a track suit, in cotton or silk, but it is still there, just beneath the surface.”

We smoked in silence for a while. “Do you miss your century?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It had some conveniences. And I was good at what I did. Here, I find that it’s more important to know about tobacco ash than DNA.”

“DNA?”

“Genetics. The science of heredity. In my time, individuals can be identified by their blood, saliva, or even semen. Much more scientific than eye-witness testimony. I’ll explain it some other time.”

He looked a bit melancholy, I thought.

“Did you leave someone behind?” I asked.

“I have a brother older than me. We don’t get along. My parents are dead.”

“No sweetheart?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Not my area.”

“No friends?”

“I don’t have friends, Doctor. People find me odd and a bit disturbing, so I keep to myself.”

This struck me as terribly sad. Finding myself in a similar place — no family, no close friends — I understood how lonely he must be, especially surrounded with the trappings of a time that was not familiar. “Well,” I said, exhaling the last of my cigarette, “you have one friend in 1881.”

He looked startled, then blushed. “Watson, you’re very kind-hearted. I am afraid that I inconvenience you a great deal.”

“You do,” I said, smiling. “But my life would be quite dull if you did not inconvenience me.”

I lay awake, and though he breathed evenly, I think he was awake as well. My thoughts were traveling through time, to a year when poisons could cure a cancer patient, and science could convict a guilty criminal.

* By _carbonic acid_ , Dr Watson means _carbon dioxide_ , which Victorians believed would build up in unventilated spaces.

* * *

 

Friday, 25 November 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

I have a case which, I think, will enable me to buy back Watson’s pocket watch. 

As I think about it now, I am surprised to find myself so concerned about it. I had not really intended to get it out of hock. When I pawned it, I didn’t care anything about his pitiful brother or his wretched father. I didn’t care about his unfaithful girlfriend or his idiot flatmate or his broken heart. I missed my old life; I wanted my flat back.

At some point, however, I have started to care about him.

I cannot afford caring. As Mycroft has often reminded me, it is not an advantage. And in my present situation, attachment is a bad idea. I need to use people. I need to get myself into a position to leave this century with all its ignorance and filth and poverty and greed, and return to my own, where all those things also exist, but we also have phones and computers and central heating. I cannot work here, where I am a fish, swimming in murky water.

But then I look at my doctor, coming home from his awful job, smiling at me and asking if I had a good day, and his warmth and good humour remind me that it is a precious thing to have a friend. Even though he keeps the windows open at night and hums to himself when I’m thinking and is so bloody thrifty that he smokes the cheapest tobacco and will not let me buy more cigarettes because they are _too dear._ Yes, he is _my_ doctor _._ And my friend.

 

Sunday, 4 December 1881 / John H Watson

My flatmate and I have fallen into a routine. I will not say it is comfortable, but it is interesting. He, as I have said, keeps irregular hours. His clients range from dustmen and costermongers to well-dressed gentlemen and, occasionally, ladies. He gives them all the same quiet attention, whether he expects them to pay in pennies or pounds. One evening his visitor was a sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow whom he introduced as Mr Lestrade; I later learned that he is an Inspector with Scotland Yard. Holmes has also done work for a Baron somebody, though he would not share the name. I am impressed with his energy, especially since it seems to be keeping our rent paid and better quality food in our pantry.

I continue to work at the asylum, though I have started to ask around. There are many in this city who could use the care of a doctor, but cannot afford one. I cannot despise them for their poverty, but I also have to eat and pay rent. I think I could do some real good for the poor of our neighbourhood, the children who are not fed enough, the women who cannot stop adding more children to those they can barely feed, the men who work long hours at dangerous jobs to support growing families. It strikes me as terribly ignorant to forbid them the means of birth control. It further strikes me as arrogant to blame them for their poverty. Having lived on the edge of that Charybdis for much of my life, I know how rare it is to break free.

Holmes does not seem worried about my pending unemployment, but it would be humiliating for me to live off of another man’s income. I cannot afford to live alone, though. If need be, I will apply to the charity hospital on Whitechapel Road. 

 

Saturday, 17 December 1881 / John H Watson

Living with Holmes is a bad idea. I should have recognised this before our lives became so intertwined. He has not yet retrieved my watch, the only thing that keeps me waiting.

Oh, Christ. I am the worst. He will know.

How could I think that we could share a bed? Knowing what I am, how could I let myself have feelings for him?

I admit, I do have these feelings. When I was in the army, I indulged them. There were few women available, and it was not unusual for men to take care of one another. We all winked at such activities. When I returned, I sought out women, thinking I would marry and that my youthful indiscretions would be over and done with, that I would lead a respectable life.

It is not to be so. I am infected, unwholesome, my desires twisted. I thought I could change myself, but now I see clearly: I am a wretched invert, doomed to seek pleasure with other men. God help me.

And it is not simply a carnal urge. Were that the case, I could simply find another outlet. Unhappily, I am in love with the man.

Physically, he is beautiful, a Greek statue come to life. Intellectually, he is brilliant, a mind without equal. I have often watched him covertly as he fusses with his experiments, making notes in a little book where he records them. The ecstatic look on his face when he makes a deduction is almost erotic. He looks at me, smiling; I am undone.

But it cannot be. He is not like me, and even if he were, why would he risk his freedom for a man such as me, broken by war, unable to make an income, and quite ordinary in every way? He would be a fool.

When I awoke this morning, my arousal was evident. I am aware that all males experience morning hardness, but generally I am out of the bed and able to take care of it before he wakes.

Today he noticed. I saw his face. He looked at me with scorn, grinning at my discomposure.

God, he is a beautiful creature. Beautiful and brilliant. There is no hope for me.

I am disgusting. I cannot stay another day. My watch is the price of my immoral nature and poor judgement.

 

Sunday, 18 December 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Sometimes I need to remind myself: this isn’t 2010.

Still, there are some things, some situations that are universal, regardless of the culture of a particular age.

This is 1881, the Age of Victoria, where men must never see an ankle, where everyone calls a leg a _limb,_ and god forbid that a chicken should have _breasts_. Here both men and women wear multiple layers of clothing, even in summer — even when they go to the seaside (so Watson informs me). Most importantly, nobody ever acknowledges that people urinate, void their bowels, or (God forbid) copulate.

The evidence of urination and excretion are in the streets, though Watson tells me that sanitation has improved immeasurably since his boyhood. And copulation — all one has to do is walk through certain parks after midnight to see people copulating in every pairing and manner imaginable — and not for the purpose of reproduction. There are more prostitutes than potential clients in the streets. Apparently it provides a decent living for many, an underground economy that no one talks about it. But there it is, in plain view. I saw a couple _in congress_ yesterday — in an alley. One appeared female, but no — a _Mary-Ann_.

Homosexuality is another thing entirely. In 1881 it is actually _illegal_ for two men to love one another. (Or two women, I presume, though no one acknowledges that women would actually have _those feelings_.) _Gross indecency_ it is called. Stupid Victorians. They believe that women should not have any erotic urges at all, should (ideally) approach their marriage bed with complete ignorance, and simply lie back and think of England while their husbands try to enjoy themselves, but not too much, the purpose of the entire exercise being to produce offspring. A man may visit a _sporting house_ where he may have sex with female prostitutes — because men are presumed to need sexual outlets. But let a man actually _love_ another man — not even as an _outlet_ , but actually out of sentiment — and he can be thrown in prison for indecency. Well, they used to put sodomites to death, so I suppose things have improved.

In Vienna, Freud is beginning his study of the mind. Soon he will publish a paper suggesting that cocaine can be therapeutic. He will eventually develop psychoanalysis, create his model of the human mind, with Ego, Superego, and Id. He will in due course invent penis envy and make women everywhere feel inadequate because they cannot have the right kind of orgasm. One thing he did get right, though: homosexuality is a natural variation.

But I digress. I made a mistake yesterday morning, and now my flatmate has fled in shame and confusion.

Having been here over a month, I have nearly forgotten how to be crude. Not that I was ever proficient in profanity; I blame my mother for the fact that I can scarcely bring myself to utter words like _fuck, cock, etc._ But though I choose my words with care, I have never minced words. I am not shy; my tongue is blunt. Now, however, I hear myself beginning to speak _Victorian_ , like the delicate ladies and euphemistic gentlemen who come seeking help, couching their queries in circumlocution. The people who consult me frequently have problems involving things Victorians don’t discuss. I have begun to learn their code.

This is a round-about way of saying that I will describe what happened between me and my flatmate without being vulgar.

Watson always rises before I do. As we share the bed, I often wake when he gets up, but generally am relaxed enough that I simply lie there, feigning sleep. He is a reserved person; this little deceit gives him a measure of privacy as he washes and dresses. Yesterday morning, however, I was awake enough to turn over and ask him about something. He was not expecting me to be awake, and the words I was about to say died in my throat as my gaze fell upon his very erect male member. (Or should I call it his manhood? His ploughshare? His cockstand? His rise?) No euphemism can do it justice. It was magnificent. Not what I expected for such a small man.

At any rate, I must have smirked a bit. I am not unused to locker rooms and public urinals, but there are conventions about these things, even in 2010. One does not stand too close to another man at a urinal or study him too intently while undressing or showering. And one certainly does not look at another man’s privates and smile. But I was unprepared for what I saw and my reaction seems to have horrified my flatmate. The admiration I felt must have appeared to be something else.

I stared at him. He turned scarlet and grabbed for his dressing gown, which did not do much to hide his arousal. I continued to stare. He took his clothing and fled down the hall. I heard him run water in the bath. Within a few minutes I heard the door of the flat close.

Today is Sunday. He did not return last night, and now I am heading out to look for him.

 

Sunday, 18 December 1881 / John H Watson

I could not go home. I covered my shame and went to work yesterday, trying to forget.

At one my shift ended, and I left, with no destination in mind. I had some money in my pocket, enough to have a drink. More than one drink, in fact.

I remember being in the park, though perhaps that was a dream. All my money was gone when I woke, spent on scotch and God knows what else.

This morning I woke up in a church, where I had apparently spent the night, passed out drunk in a pew. I suppose I dragged myself there, thinking I would pray for absolution of my sins, but I am quite sure God turned his face from me. Sinners can expect forgiveness, but repentance must be real. _Go, and sin no more._ He saw into my heart. While my mind begs for absolution, my shameful body feels no contrition.

I made my escape as the organist began to play the prelude. People frowned at me as I left, my collar askew, my trousers in a sorry state of disrepair. Perhaps they thought I was a tramp. Alas, I am just another lost soul, getting back onto the road to hell.

I have to go to the flat, if only to get my few possessions. I will apologise. I owe Holmes that, at least.

 

Sunday Evening, 18 December 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

If this were 2010, I would know where to begin looking for a man gone missing. London in 1881 is not nearly so large, but I don’t know this city as well as my own.

Pubs are closed on Sundays. I hadn’t expected that. I did expect that Watson imbibed last night, however. His brother was an alcoholic, so it was a reasonable assumption that he would consider getting intoxicated as a solution to his humiliation.

Churches are open on Sundays. Would he go to church? That seemed possible. These Victorians are great church-goers. I suspect there are a lot of Pharisees in those pews, however. I did not find him in any of the churches near Baker Street.

At around noon, I returned to our building. Once inside, I saw him sitting at the top of the stairs, looking like a child who has run away from home, only to realise that he misses his mum.

“Watson!” I cried, feeling more relief than I had expected. “Are you all right?”

He would not look at me. “I have returned for my things,” he said. “Then I will be gone.”

“You’re leaving? Why?” I was pretty sure I knew why, but needed to hear him say it.

“You know why,” he replied, his eyes on the floor.

“Come.” I forcefully lifted him to his feet and propelled him into the flat. “Let’s talk in here.”

I think he was too surprised to object. Once inside, he said, “I owe you an apology.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” I said. “I should apologise to you.”

“No,” he said miserably. “Let me speak. I am not the kind of man with whom you would wish to live, let alone share a bed. I am sorry I did not warn you, but I thought — I did not expect —” His eyes filled and he pressed his lips together.

“But Watson—”

His voice was ragged as he continued. “Regrettably, I have developed some feelings for you which you will find repulsive, as you should. I only wish to say that I am sorry and will be out of your sight as soon as I collect my belongings.”

“Oh, Watson,” I said softly. “John. It’s all right. You don’t need to leave.”

He made a choked noise. “I suppose that your age has discovered a cure for men such as me. God knows, I have tried to cure myself.”

“Yes. That’s why you became engaged, I suppose. Denying your nature.”

He nodded. “Victor knew. He led me to believe… but he wasn’t. And when I started seeing Mary, well, that is how he got to her.” He sobbed quietly.

I put my hands on his shoulders. “You don’t need a cure, Watson. In 2010 most people accept this as a natural variation. We are not savages or deviants. Men like you and I are born this way.”

“Like you?” He looked at me with amazement. “You are… an invert?”

“Is it so terrible, in your mind, what we both are?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “In your time, do men… like us…”

“In some places, it is legal for two men or two women to marry. In England, we have a domestic partnership, which is like a marriage in all but name.”

This information stunned him. “I have often thought of the ancients, and their greater tolerance for inversion. I once tried to write a story… but such a thing could never be published.” His eyes overflowed.

I looked at him, weeping in his misery, thinking he was diseased. Holding him close, I pressed a chaste kiss to forehead.

This innocent act sent him into a panic. “Oh, God!” he cried, suddenly breaking away. “If we should be discovered—”

“We will be careful, my dear,” I said. “And when I return to 2010, if you want to go with me, that is—”

“You have the means to return?”

“Soon, I will.” I hoped, at least, that it would be possible.

He nodded. “When you do, I will go with you.”

He embraced me, sighing as I pulled him closer.

 

We lay entwined in our bed, worn out with love-making. I was no stranger to sex, but love was new for me. I could not find words.

“Once, I loved a boy,” Watson whispered.

“What happened?”

“When my parents died, I was only eleven. They put me in an orphanage. I had to share a bed with an older boy, Tommy Hodges. He was… very kind to me. I loved him.”

“Is he…?”

“I don’t know. Someone found out. They sent him away.”

I pulled him closer. “You’re not going to lose me, John.”

“I hope not,” he said. “Please kiss me again.”

I did. His moustache tickled.


	4. Before His Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity, speculation, and -- finally -- a time machine.

Friday, 30 December 1881 / Sherlock Holmes

Watson has been sacked from his job. He says it was for budget reasons, but hinted that the director was not happy that he had turned me loose on the public. I have tried to keep my head down, but my clients do talk. Wisely, Watson did not tell him that we are now flatmates.

While it’s not a good thing that he has lost his job, the timing was somewhat fortunate. After his night on the streets nearly two weeks ago, he came down with an influenza that quickly spiralled into pneumonia. He has been quite ill for these last ten days. I have put my own work on hold to take care of him. In 1881, influenza is even more of a killer than it is in the twenty-first century. Without antibiotics to suppress secondary infections, a person can go from coughing to pneumonia to dead in a matter of days.

My own immunity seems to have held up; I have not been sick since arriving, even though I’ve been sitting at his side, spooning broth into him and laying cool flannels on his feverish head. He insists on opening the window, of course. I layer on the blankets and quilts, reminding him that a serious chill could be worse than carbon dioxide poisoning (which is unlikely, considering the construction of the building).

It interests me that I am unaffected by the bug. I remember learning about European settlers (i.e. invaders) coming to the New World and wiping out the natives with germs they had not been exposed to, and thus had no immunity against. I had thought that travelling one hundred and twenty-nine years would put me in a similar position to those first Americans who welcomed the Europeans, never suspecting that their germs would kill them more swiftly than their swords.

Perhaps I should be more fearful of contracting some illness here. Or perhaps my new neighbours ought to be afraid that I have unintentionally brought them some unknown scourge. I hope not. It would be inconvenient to wipe out nineteenth century England with SARS or Ebola. Not that I carry those diseases. I am a careful traveller. Thankfully, I was vaccinated against many of the bugs that kill Victorians, including small pox. And perhaps I have already lived through later reincarnations of this influenza and have thus acquired immunity to its grandsires.

But poor Watson was so ill I thought of calling in a doctor, despite his protests. On Christmas day, he was delirious, calling out for friends fallen in Afghanistan. He had imaginary conversations with Harry, his (deceased) brother. He begged forgiveness of his (deceased) father, and sobbed, thinking his (deceased) mother was sponging his forehead. I sat with him all night, afraid that he might die if I fell asleep. Though I am an atheist, I thank all the gods that he came through it safely.

He’s much improved now, able to get out of bed to toilet and bathe himself, and to sit in his chair by the fire. Best of all, he is smiling again, at least in part because I have given him his Christmas present.

He holds it in his hand now, feeling it ticking against his chest, turning it over to run his fingers over the surface, polished at my request before I picked it up. He turns to me and smiles some more. “I have something for you,” he says, his voice raspy. “It’s in the envelope on my desk.”

 

Saturday, 31 December 1881 / John H Watson

This is the last day I shall be able to write “1881” on the page, so I thought I should make an effort to compose something. Holmes points out that it is the last palindromic year until the year 1961, meaning that it appears the same whether viewed right-side up or upside down. The previous one was 1691. If I am alive in 1961 I will be one hundred and nine years old. If I live so long, I hope I am able to remember what a palindrome is.

I feel as if I have returned from a journey to the boundary of another world, a place full of people I once knew. I saw my parents, my brother, my comrades in arms, and scores of patients, many of them children. Perhaps it was my own nearness to death that brought these departed souls close to me, watching and waiting for me to join them. Some beckoned to me. I, however, heard another voice calling me.

Holmes (I should call him _Sherlock_ , he says) has been at my side almost constantly. My illness appears to have shaken him. Influenza is a common and serious illness, one that all too often leads to death. As a doctor, I have seen as many patients die as survive. In my own recovery, he still hovers, despite my reassurances. “I am well, now,” I tell him. “In a few weeks, I’ll be good as new.”

He gives me a worried frown. “If only we had some penicillin,” he says. “Not for the ‘flu, but for the secondary infection.”

“Penicillium?” I recalled articles I had read in the British Medical Journal. This one word was too much for my voice; I coughed for about ten minutes.

Holmes brought me a cup of tea and waited until I had recovered, then explained that the mould experiments I had recently read about would eventually lead to the development of anti-bacterials which could prevent many common infections. As influenza is caused by a virus, he said that it would be ineffective, but the pneumonia that nearly killed me, a bacterium, could likely have been felled by a preparation of penicillium mould. An antibiotic, he called it.

He then got a thoughtful look on his face. “I wonder,” he said. “Since I arrived here, I’ve noticed the many discoveries that my era takes for granted that have not yet been found or invented in yours. Penicillin, for example, will not be discovered until 1928, and will not be used medically until 1942. It is one of the great discoveries of medical science.”

Right away, I saw where his thoughts were heading. “Sherlock, do you think you could turn this mould into medicine? Think of the lives that could be saved!”

Standing in front of the hearth, he warmed himself. For several minutes he did not speak. “I am a scientist, John — a chemist. The man who will discover the usefulness of the mould is also a chemist. His name is Fleming, and like yourself, he is a Scotsman. This will happen in 1928. It won’t be until a decade later, though, that it will be stabilised enough to be really useful. It might take time, though I think I could do it. I’m just not sure I _should_ do it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “When I think of how many patients I’ve lost to infections, to think that even half of them could have been saved!”

“We are changing history, Watson,” he said. “I can tell you about 2010 as I knew it, eighty-two years after Fleming’s discovery. I can’t tell you about the world a hundred and twenty eight years after the discovery of penicillin because I didn’t live in that 2010. Any change we make, even a small one, is likely to alter the course of history.”

“But this change would be for the good,” I said. “Would it not make a better world? Perhaps someone will live who might have died, who will make other great discoveries — someone who will invent flying cars and cities in the clouds, above all the poisonous vapours spewed out by factories. Perhaps a cure for cancer will be set in motion, or disorders of the mind prevented.” My mind was reeling with the possibilities. All my fancies of a future world without disease or war or poisonous gasses seemed within reach.

He smiled at my enthusiasm. “And perhaps someone would live who will make war and lead millions into slavery. Perhaps the British Empire will fall, and a terrible empire will rise in its place.”

I saw his point. Even his presence here, in 1881, might have in some small way changed history. “Your 2010 may already be gone, my friend,” I said softly.

He collapsed into his seat. “I’m a fool, John.”

Then he sank into a reverie and did not move until we heard the bells chiming in the new year. He rose then, and stood with me at the open window, listening to the sounds of the new year.

At last he sighed, kissed me, and said, “Come, dear boy. Let’s go to bed.”

 

Sunday, 1 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

Watson slept in this morning, and I crept out of bed so as not to disturb him. He is still quite weak, though he coughs less.

I went to the chemist a few days ago and had them make up a cough syrup for him, minus the heroin. Victorians love opiates. Everybody uses laudanum (opium tincture) for every possible ailment. You can even buy it at the chemist without a script. You can give it to your children, and they will fall asleep and stop asking endless questions so that you can have procreative sex with your spouse without interruption. (At the same time, they condemn opium dens. I suppose chemists must make a living.)

And cocaine is nice, too. Got a toothache? Cocaine is the answer. Remembering that the world’s most popular soft drink once contained a fair amount of cocaine, I can understand. As a former cocaine addict, I am horrified at the casual acceptance of a drug that has ruined, will ruin, many lives.

The other thing they love is electricity, which they believe will cure everything from bad posture to impotence. I’m sure that if more men electrified their dicks, we would have a new method of birth control as well.

I instructed the chemist to use sugar syrup and lemon juice, nothing else.

And I am happy that I went through rehab before coming here. At least I have learned some self-control. Watson does not approve of cocaine. He has expressed this vehemently to me, whenever I have commented on the availability of this common nostrum in this era. I will use his disapproval as a reminder that it’s not worth losing him over something I will not be able to control, once renewed. _Dear Watson, my saviour_.

As far as electricity goes — I’m afraid I am an incurable addict. I will tolerate gas lights and wood-burning fireplaces only as long as I have my Watson at my side.

Before he became ill, Watson spent many of his free hours writing. He has a little desk in our flat where he sits with a stack of foolscap and his fountain pen, filling pages with elegant script. I have looked over his shoulder several times, but my ability to read his flowing cursive is limited. Not a skill much needed in 2010.

“You have good penmanship for a doctor,” I commented.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Traditionally, doctors have the worst penmanship,” I said. “What are you writing?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, refilling his pen. “Nonsense.”

I had intended to snoop, but (uncharacteristically) decided to let him be. He had already shed tears over his lost stories, and over their rejection by several periodicals. Clearly, the man loves to write, but is now shy of sharing. I would not press my luck by violating his privacy.

The day he recovered enough to get out of bed, several days after Christmas, he hobbled to his desk and pulled out an envelope.

It was the time travel story he had lost in the unfortunate kerb sale his roommate had left behind when he eloped with Watson’s sweetheart. He had re-written it from memory, and it was, he promised, quite improved from the lost version. He looked both eager and abashed as he handed me the envelope.

I sat in my chair on New Year’s Day, 1882, reading _The Adventures of Doctor Ormond Sacker, Time Traveller, from the Year 1881 to Ancient Athens_. As I read, the author watched warily from his seat by the fire, pretending to be disinterested, but hanging on my every twitch and frown.

It was, of course, written in the ornate style of most Victorian fiction, both wordy and romantic, but, overlooking the scientific errors (for which he cannot be blamed), it was an enjoyable story. My doctor writes with wit and imagination. Remembering that all his prior criticism had been negative, and that he had, metaphorically, just handed me his heart, I thought carefully before I spoke. I could not be vaguely effusive, for he would see through that and never trust my praise again; nor could I be nit-picky, for that would discourage him from continuing something he truly loves doing.

He startled when I looked up at him and began to pull his hands nervously.

“You are a man before your time, John,” I said with a smile. “In 2010, you would have many readers.”

“Do you really — Is it good, do you think? I mean, it is obviously not yet finished, and could be altered if you think…”

“It _is_ good,” I said. “Your hero, Dr Sacker, is not an unrealistic super-man, he is an everyman. He is brave, and kind, and intelligent, but quirky enough to seem realistic. His is a fully-developed character. His foil, Polydorus, is of a different mould, but no less believable, no less attractive. You’ve clearly researched your setting and made it come alive. The plot is fully realised, fast-paced enough, and has a romantic, but not pathetic ending. This is not _too fantastic_ , for it has a solidly realistic feel in spite of the fantasy setting, and it is certainly not _trash_.”

He put his face in his hands, and I knew that my praise had brought him to tears. “It will never be published,” he said at last, his voice quivering.

“Not in 1882,” I said. “Just wait, John. You are ahead of your time.”

 

Monday, 2 January, 1882 / John H Watson

Today Holmes decided that we should walk a bit. The weather was dry and less cold than it has been. After nearly a month of traveling only between my bed, the loo, and my chair, my legs are weak and in need of exercise, so I agreed.

I tucked my hand under his arm as we walked. He seemed surprised, but smiled. “I am looking for a bookseller,” he told me.

I led him to Bloomsbury, where we visited several shops. He seemed particularly interested in seventeenth-century science, and at each shop would ask about works by J. Moriarty. The first two places we stopped had never heard of the author, but at the third shop, which dealt more in antique volumes than current works, the clerk spoke to the owner, who pointed us to the very book Holmes was requesting. He seemed overjoyed and willingly handed over two shillings for the volume, though its condition was poor.

“And what is Mr Moriarty’s specialty?” I asked. Holmes had his nose in the book even as we headed back along Marylebone Road.

“Physics,” he replied without pulling his nose out of the book.

I perceived that conversation was futile, and would only frustrate him, so I fell silent and focused on working my muscles. At home, he would explain.

Before we reached Baker Street, however, we passed a small shop with a sign: P Iacomo. From above we could hear music. Holmes stopped, transfixed, and looked at the door with undisguised longing.

“Shall we see what Mr Iacomo’s business is?” I asked.

He nodded. We pulled the heavy door open and ascended the stairway that rose before us.

At the top of the stairs we knocked, though the door was halfway open. The workshop smelled of wood and resin and shellac. From the ceiling hung violins and violas; cellos and bass viols lay on their sides on the floor. A small, balding man with dark hair and a bushy moustache came to greet us.

“How may I help you gentlemen?”

“We heard music—” I began.

Glancing around the room, Holmes said, “You are a violin maker? May I see?”

Mr Iacomo bowed and motioned us inside.

“I am Doctor Watson,” I said. “My friend, Mr Holmes, is an ardent lover of music.”

This much was obvious. Holmes was already looking at the various instruments, holding his hands (twitching with the urge to touch) firmly behind his back. “These are beautiful,” he said. “Was that your own instrument we heard from the street?”

Mr Iacomo picked up a violin. “This one,” he said, placing it under his chin. He took the bow in his hand and played a few notes. I am no expert; I would not have known the quality of a violin from looking at it, but when he began to play, it sounded heavenly.

“Lovely,” breathed Holmes.

The violin maker held it out to him. “Please.”

He examined the instrument and smiled at me. “You will like this piece, I think, Watson.”

When I saw how reverently, yet familiarly, he held it, when he placed it under his chin and drew the bow across the strings, I felt as if my chest were too small to contain my heart’s swelling. The music soared; the workshop faded and all I saw was Holmes, bending, swaying, completely immersed in sound. When he finally stopped playing, I could not speak.

“Tchaikovsky,” he said. “The Violin Concerto. 1878.”

The silence after such music left me bereft. As we walked home, each sunk in our private thoughts, I still heard those magic notes in my mind.

“I did not know you played,” I finally said as we approached Baker Street.

“I started when I was four,” he replied. “Over the years, it has been a great comfort to me.”

“I wonder that you did not go into music.”

He shook his head. “My parents expected me to, but I feared that if I did, it would lose its magic for me. I’m not sorry that I went another way.”

“Was Mr Iacomo’s violin very good?”

“It was quite good. I confess, when I had it in my hands, I began calculating how many meals it might cost me.” He smiled. “Strange to think, the instrument I play in 2010 is already a hundred years old now, in 1882. It was a gift from my parents, though, not something I could afford on a detective’s salary. I hope my brother hasn’t sold it.”

And thus, it became necessary for me to buy a violin.

 

Wednesday, 4 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

The weather has been fine, and the walking seems to do Watson good, so I shall continue to push that agenda. He must be fully well before he starts seriously looking for a job.

Not that he really needs a job. My income has been sufficient for our needs, as there are fewer things to waste money on in 1882 than in 2010. Half of my extravagances have not yet been invented. No cellular bill, no DSL line needed, no gadgets to tempt me. No appliances to break down and require a repairman. Food is cheap, utilities controllable, and there is not a great variety of personal care products. Second hand clothing is good enough, the workmanship superior to all but the finest clothes one might find in 2010.

I do not push John to find work, but he will not be a _kept man_ , he says, no matter his affection for me, and so my job is to get him as healthy as possible. Thus, we walk.

Monday we went to a bookseller, and yesterday we walked in the park. Today I have another errand for us, a trip to the British Museum.

I had not been there in ages, since I was in school and we took a trip to see the Rosetta Stone. ( _In ages_ , I say, though in fact I haven’t been there — yet.)

_Dear Reader, forgive my time-travel jokes. I find myself thinking more about what I have left_ ahead _of my present time location, looking forward to bringing my dear Watson to that time and place that I call home._

We walk the marble hallways, see the cuneiform, the mummies, the sculptures of gods and heroes. We traverse the ancient world: Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. We visit the medieval world: suits of armour, tapestries, swords.

At last, we reach my destination: the clocks. Here is where I expect to find the object I seek.

 

Wednesday, 4 January 1882 / John H Watson

We went to the British Museum today. I have always loved museums, and this one in particular. An impressive collection of past art and objects. I naturally wanted to see the Ancient Greece collection, and Holmes seemed content to wander at my side, admiring the statues and painted amphorae.

He seemed in no hurry, and equally impassive towards all the exhibits, until we came to the Medieval Europe collection. Here, he spent an hour studying the timepieces. I suppose that clocks and watches in his day require no winding and can probably announce the temperature, the barometric pressure, and the latest stock prices. I said this aloud, hoping to get a chuckle out of him, and he simply nodded. “Oh, yes. And much more. Only most people in 2010 don’t wear a watch. We use our phones to tell time.”

“You mean a telephone?” I thought of the devices I had read about, able to carry sounds from one point to another distant point. I had seen an illustration of a cylinder with a conic mouthpiece mounted on a wooden platform. “How can a telephone tell time?”

He smiled at me. “No one in the year 2010 would leave their house without their phone. It’s like having a library in your pocket, and an atlas, a calendar, a camera—”

“Did you bring one with you?” I asked eagerly. The only proof of his time journey I’d had thus far was the odd clothing he’d worn.

“Afraid not. It’s sort of a rule of time travel — no objects allowed that could identify one as a time traveler. No electronic devices, no money, no credit cards, licenses, photos… It makes it difficult to claim you’ve traveled through time, but it protects the past against time pollution. You remember when I told you I couldn’t invent penicillin without changing the future? For the same reason, I had to travel without those things.”

“Do all time travellers respect these rules?” I asked. Perhaps future folk were more law abiding than my chronological peers.

He shrugged. “Probably not. There are few of us, however, and it was my first trip, so I had no choice but to obey the man who sent me.”

“Man who—” I stopped walking, momentarily stunned into silence. “What man?”

“His name is Moriarty. Ah, look here!”

His face lit with curiosity, he stood before a glass case containing an object that looked a bit like a clock, in that had a face, of sorts, as well as dials and gears. Like a clock, it was mounted in a wooden frame. Walking around the glass case, I saw that it had two more dials on the back. There were markings, but they were in some system of writing that I did not know.

“What is it?” I asked.

“See if you can guess, Watson.” He was grinning.

I read the card identifying the exhibit. _This object was found concealed in a wall in a Franciscan friary in the town of Omagh, Ireland, in the year 1764. Its purpose is unknown. The lettering, believed to be an ancient Celtic dialect, has never been deciphered._

I walked around the object, studying it. It did not look especially ancient. Dials. Gears. “It looks like some kind of timepiece,” I said at last. “But it makes little sense. If the writing is ancient, why does it not look older?”

“Very good, Watson,” he said.

I shrugged. “Do you know what it is?”

He stared at the object, a curious smile on his lips. “It’s a time machine.”

My mouth must have hung open, for he began to chuckle. “Holmes,” I said. “Is this the device that brought you here?”

“It may very well be. I doubt that many copies exist.”

“But why— how— you did not bring it with you, then?”

“I’m afraid I fibbed a bit, claiming I had access to it. In 2010 it was in the building I left from, not in the British Museum. I’m not entirely sure that it was the same object. This is the same type of device, however.”

“How does it work?”

“No idea. That’s why I was looking for Moriarty’s book.”

“Moriarty — the physicist? Is it his machine? Why is it here?”

“Let me think a bit,” he said. “How would you like to take a trip by train?”

“What is our destination?”

“Hm. Edinburgh, I think.”

I smiled. “I attended university there.”

“Good,” he said. “Maybe you can talk them into letting us browse the library's private collection. Let’s go home and pack a few things.” He took my watch from my pocket and flipped it open. “It’s late. We’ll catch a train in the morning.”


	5. Man and Machine

Thursday, 5 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

We caught a train at nine. Though trains in my day are a bit faster and fully electric, there really are very few differences. They are all dirty and crowded and lurch along the tracks in a way that lulls one into a dream-like state.

I had decided that our research could begin in Edinburgh, giving Watson a chance to look up old friends at his alma mater. Moriarty had taught there in the eighteenth century, and I hoped to find some of his notes in the library. After that, we might undertake Ireland, though I wasn’t sure that would be necessary.

I looked across at my companion, who was already nodding off. We’d been awake until nearly midnight, I reflected with a smile. As Watson would say, we had been _tasting the fruits of our mutual affection._ This made me chuckle. _Tasting, indeed._

I closed my eyes and tried to recall the details of my journey to 1881. My memory is normally infallible, but in this case there seemed to be a gap. I could perfectly recall the events leading up to that night. There had been a string of what appeared to be suicides that were, in fact, murders. I’d been working with Scotland Yard on the case.

I remembered the cab driver offering me two pills. “Choose,” he said. “I’ll take the other one and we’ll see who lives and who dies.” I remembered the bullet that came from nowhere.

As he lay gasping on the floor, I demanded a name — “Who? Who are you working with?”

With his final breath, he confessed: “Moriarty.”

It was a name I had not heard, yet once the name came out of that man’s mouth, it was as though I already knew it.

The next time I heard the name, it was after solving a series of puzzles directed specifically to my attention, each puzzle spoken by a hostage strapped with explosives, each with a deadline to solve before the hostage was blown up. Someone was taunting me, daring me to prove myself. Again, the name Moriarty came up. I would meet him, I decided, and left an invitation on my blog.

Our meeting was to take place at a public swimming pool, the scene of a long-ago murder I had once tried to solve, a boy who should not have drowned. No police, he had said. I waited alone in the darkened room, watching the movement of the water reflected the street lights outside the building, small flashes of light dancing on the walls and high ceiling. I had half expected another captive, a mouthpiece like the others, to appear and state the next puzzle. Instead, a voice spoke in the darkness and a man walked out of the shadows. We were alone.

An ordinary man, a bit poshly dressed, soft-spoken, but terrifying. He told me things, and I did not believe him. But I was intrigued. When he showed me the device, I laughed. _Do you have any proof?_ I asked him. _Do you really expect me simply to believe that you are who you say you are?_

He patted me down, emptied my pockets, placing my phone and wallet on my coat, which lay folded on the floor. _Where shall I send you?_ he asked. _Do you have a preference?_

I said _1960_ , not because I had any particular desire to see that year, but because it was close enough to 2010 to have some of the amenities I was used to, but far enough back in time to predate everything familiar to me. (Even then, I must have suspected that he was telling the truth.) The Middle Ages were too full of disease and death. The Enlightenment had always sounded boring, ditto the Industrial Revolution. Too many wars in the first half of the twentieth century. The 1970s and 80s — one word: disco. And I didn’t want to have to confront myself as a child. That would be awkward.

Nineteen-sixty seemed innocent but not primitive. Fifty years back in time seemed enough, but not too much.

As I sat on the train, my eyes closed, I tried to visualise those moments. He’d done something with the device then, I recalled. Maybe he’d fiddled with the dials. Or turned a handle, winding something. Perhaps there were lights, or sounds, or vibrations. Somehow the details were missing from that repository of memory I call my Mind Palace.

My next memory was waking up in St George’s Fields. It was dawn; I might have been unconscious for a while.

_How does the device work?_ _Does it generate some sort of disturbance? Does it open a portal?_ This I could not answer, and mentally kicked myself for not demanding to see an owner’s manual. Well, I could have at least asked more questions. It just seemed so absurd. Somehow, I hadn’t expected it to work, I suppose. A part of me hadn’t expected it. The other part of me… What _had_ I expected?

There are many problems with time travel, too many for a rational man to take it as a serious possibility. It would create paradoxes, require the existence of alternate universes, multiple timelines…

I looked across at my companion. His elbow on the arm rest, he was leaning his chin on his palm, eyes closed, dozing. 

In the year 2010 I am known as a dispassionate, analytical man, untouched by sentiment. I have no friends, as I told Watson. I am solitary, and most people who know me put this down to extreme introversion. I have been called a freak, a psychopath, and a machine. My brother has even suspected me of sociopathy.

What my acquaintances in 2010 do not know is that I am no machine. I am only a man who has learned to suppress his feelings. I have loved, only once. It was in my university years that I met a friend who became more to me than that. Mycroft knows the story; he intervened when it became clear that I was entangled in something that would soon become ugly. From that one relationship, I learned that it is better not to love, or even have friends who might become more. The pain of losing love makes it a foolish risk.

In the year 1881 I have a lover, and am forced to examine my own feelings for him so that I am sure I am doing the right thing. At first, I took advantage of his generosity. I hope I have repaid that debt. I did not want to have any ties to this year. I had come as a traveler, not to live here, and did not intend to do more than have a look around and return. The longer I stay, though, the more I come to see that I have found a companion whom I could never have met in my own time. It occurs to me, thinking dispassionately and even analytically, that I may love him. The evidence is all here, before me.

I have become the fool I once despised.

One moment of rashness in 2010 has stranded me in 1881. I am not a simple tourist here; I have become part of this time. I have changed history, meeting people, solving their little mysteries, becoming part of their economy. I walk their streets, drink in their pubs, pour my wastes into their sewers, breath their air. I do not recall killing any butterflies, but I’m sure I’ve stepped on a few cockroaches. All these things have woven me into the fabric of this world. _Is that what Moriarty intended?_

And now there is Watson. In a moment of emotion, I promised him that he could return with me. That was an irrational, sentimental, foolish promise to make. In the first place, I do not know if return will even be possible. Secondly, I am not sure whether bringing Watson with me is a good idea. He is a man of his time, without the benefit of knowing the history of the era I would drag him into. He might be very unhappy. Thirdly, it must be admitted that the 2010 I left may no longer exist, that the footsteps I have left in 1881 may have made the future something I won’t recognise.

I regarded my sleeping friend with affection.

“Watson,” I said, patting his knee. “In your story, how did you imagine time travel working?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and straightening his posture. “What did you ask?”

“In your story, your characters traveled through time. How did you imagine this happening?”

“Hm. Well, I’m not well-versed in physics, Holmes. I suppose I was being fanciful.” He smiled. “You’re the one with experience in such things. Perhaps you can give me a good explanation that I can work into my final draft.”

I shook my head and gazed out the window, where the countryside was whizzing by. “I am a chemist by training, a detective by inclination. Ordinarily I approach a problem scientifically. This one, however, presents so many contradictions and paradoxes that sometimes I wake at night and think I must be hallucinating all this.”

“What, you think I’m an hallucination?” He leaned forward, gave my knee a squeeze, and spoke softly. “Last night felt real enough.”

“So it did,” I said, returning his smile. “Perhaps you were right initially, that I am a madman who only imagines he lived in 2010.”

“You may be a madman,” he said. “Perhaps I am one as well, since I believe you.”

“Do you really, Watson? Why would you?”

“I’ve spent a year in Bedlam, treating people with delusions, people who are completely out of touch with reality. You are not like those unfortunates. The very fact that you question your sanity tells me that you are sane. Also, your clothing. I examined it before I brought it to you and it is unlike anything I have ever seen. Not only in the styling, but in the material. The third reason I believe you is because you clearly knew all about me. You knew I had been a soldier, that my practice had failed. You told me all about my family. You told me…” His voice caught and he blinked rapidly. “You said I would be happy, in spite of the unhappy things I had lived through. At first, I believed this was some kind of trick, but the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that you had researched me. How else could you know how my life would turn out? You knew that we… you came here to find me. This is… destiny.”

Hearing the emotion behind these words, I felt quite a charlatan. Not because I had convinced him to believe a lie (it wasn’t), but because he believed in me without any solid reasoning. Almost all of his proofs were easily refutable. I could be a lying sociopath, taking advantage of him for some dark reason he couldn’t even begin to suspect. I hadn’t researched him or come here specifically for him, as he believed. Our meeting was accidental, however fortuitous it had been for both of us.

But when I saw the love in his eyes, when I heard his voice break on the word _destiny_ , I simply said, “I needed my Watson.”

“My dear man,” he said, his voice choked with emotion, “I needed you as well.”

The coach was not full. In our corner we had quite a bit of privacy. I moved to sit next to him, covered us with a blanket, and held his hand beneath it.

“John,” I said quietly. “There are things I must tell you before we reach Edinburgh.”

He nodded. “I know you’ve been thinking a great deal. I didn’t want to ask questions until you were ready.”

“You’ve been very patient with me,” I said. “I hope you will not be disappointed. Let me start at the beginning. As you may have guessed, I am not the owner of the time machine. Nor did I build it. Nor do I have any idea how it works.”

“You implied that Moriarty made it,” Watson said.

“I don’t even know that for certain. He certainly had some idea how it worked.”

“You were colleagues then? Or…” There was a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“No, John, he was my enemy, my rival. In 2010, he was responsible for many crimes which I solved. It was a contest of sorts. He left clues, and if I could solve it quickly enough, he would allow an innocent hostage to live. But I never saw the man — until the night I left 2010. That was April 1, appropriately enough.”

“What was his goal in baiting you, then, if you did not know one another?”

“He said I was interfering with his plans. He could have just killed me when we finally met, but he didn’t. We had agreed to meet at a swimming pool where a boy had drowned, my earliest case. I had promised not to bring Scotland Yard, and he said he would come alone as well.”

“Dangerous, Holmes. I’m sure he had confederates nearby, even if you did not see them.”

“Perhaps. It was reckless, but I was curious. After he told me to stop interfering, he went into sort of a villain monologue, lamenting the lack of truly great criminals, like Jack the Ripper, Jonathan Wild, or Ted Kaczyinski. He seemed to be trying to convince me to switch sides. _I have a secret,_ he told me. _It will make me the wealthiest, most powerful person in history._ And then he proceeded to tell me an almost unbelievable story.

“He said he was a time traveler from the future, and that he had plotted points in history where he could make one small change that would guarantee that he would profit. At this point, I began to think that he was not merely a psychopath, but psychotic, delusional, perhaps even schizophrenic. He showed me the device we saw yesterday at the museum and told me that he would prove that his story was true by sending me back in time and then retrieving me.”

“Oh, Holmes,” Watson groaned. “You didn’t! Were I writing this story, this is the point where the reader would begin to yell at the main character, _don’t do it, you fool!_ What guarantee did you have that he would retrieve you?”

I smiled in spite of myself. In spite of his romantic notions, my boy seemed to have a firm grasp on dramatic irony. “I didn’t have any guarantee. And I didn’t believe that his device was anything other than a collection of gears and dials. I played along, certain that the other shoe would eventually drop.”

Watson gave me his adorable confused look. “What shoe was that?”

“It’s an idiom, my love. It means _waiting for an event assumed to be inevitable._ ”

He thought about this for a moment. “I see. You expected that he was bluffing but wanted him to think you a fool so he would lower his guard and accidentally reveal the truth. Good one. I’ll have to remember that.” He pulled his little notebook out of his pocket and wrote in it, clamping his tongue firmly between his lips. “ _Other shoe_ … ha, good one.”

“Yes, that was my plan. He set the machine — initially I was just going to 1960 as a test — and made me remove my coat and put all my identifying articles with it. To me, it seemed a rather elaborate prank. The next thing I remember was waking up in St. George’s Fields. At first I wondered if I’d been drugged. Then I smelled the horse manure and saw the buildings and the people, and I knew I wasn’t in 2010 any longer. Obviously, I wasn’t in 1960, either.”

He was silent for a while. I let him absorb my words, afraid of what he might say. He chewed his lip, and then turned to me. “So, you weren’t trying to come to 1881, but this is where he sent you. You weren’t…” He gave a little sigh. “You were not looking for me.”

His disappointment made me wish I could have lied. “That doesn’t mean that it wasn’t destiny that we met, John. I meant what I said: I needed you. I just didn’t know who you were yet.”

This appeared to satisfy his romantic heart. He smiled. “Perhaps Moriarty knew something he wasn’t saying.”

“Perhaps. At any rate, here I am, and I have no idea how to get back. It appears that I have been stranded. Perhaps that is what he intended, to get me out of the way so I wouldn’t interfere with his plans, whatever they are. The problem is that I can still theoretically foil his plans from this point in time.”

“You said it was the first of April, 2010 when you left,” he said. “And you appeared in roughly the same location, but on the nineteenth of October, 1881.”

“Yes. In 2010 we were in a school across from the Imperial War Museum, formerly Bedlam Hospital. I am guessing that at whatever point you initiate the machine, you will appear at that same location, or in the vicinity, in another time.”

He made an impatient huff. “It doesn’t make sense, though. When you go back to 2010, will you be waiting for yourself?”

“I don’t know. There is a strong possibility that now that I’ve been in this time that I have changed the future and my future self no longer exists. It’s called the consistency paradox.”

His face lit up. “ _Shoot my grandfather_. I understand now. Only your grandfather most likely hasn’t been born, so it might need to be a great-grandfather, or even a great-great. Killing that ancestor before he produces offspring would guarantee that you could not exist in 2010.”

“That’s the theory. Since time travel is presumed to be impossible, up until now the question has been purely hypothetical. Nor do I intend to test that hypothesis.”

Watson chewed his lip for a moment. “Yes, I see. This is so much more complicated that I had imagined when I wrote my story. I conceived of time travel as similar to traveling by train, with the various years as stations along the way. One could get on a train and go in either direction, I thought, on the same tracks. Now it appears that, in going back, you have laid new tracks where the old ones were, and can no longer be sure where the train is going. And you may have created new trains as well, traveling to other stations, in other Englands.” He shook his head. “I must rewrite the story —again.”

“Perhaps he was using me to test the machine,” I said. “Perhaps it is a one-way trip with no returns or other stops. It may even be that he didn’t make the machine, that he stole it from some future time traveller.”

“What did the book say, Holmes?”

“It was mostly theoretical. It talked about paradoxes, alternate timelines, and logical problems. Unfortunately, it did not include a manual for building a time machine. Or explain how this one works.”

“The one in the British Museum,” Watson said. “Do you think it’s the only one? Or has he stashed them in various places where he can find them when he travels?”

I was beginning to appreciate Watson’s imagination. At least he was willing to consider possibilities and think them through. As I thought about his question, I suddenly realised something. “Oh. We may have just discovered a causal loop.”

“What is a causal loop?” he asked.

“Let’s say I met you when I was a child, in 1981. I was four that year. You will be… how old?”

“One hundred and twenty-nine,” Watson said. “Do people live that long in 1981?”

“There are people who have lived to be one hundred and twenty. But for the sake of this explanation, we’ll propose that you live to be older than anyone who has ever lived, excepting Bible patriarchs.”

“Am I senile in 1981?”

“No, you are as sharp as a tack, still a handsome devil. You have fifteen children, sixty-two grandchildren, one hundred and sixteen great-grandchildren. At any rate—”

“How many wives?” He was grinning roguishly. “Hypothetically speaking.”

“Too many. You’ll be on your twenty-third wife in 1981. At any rate, we meet. You give me something — your pocket watch, say. I grow up, and in 2010 I travel back to the year 1881, bringing the watch, which I then give to you. What is the origin of the watch?”

“I got it from my father. He bought it when—”

“No. I gave it to you. In 1881.”

“You would have to have given it to my father,” he said. “Before I was born.”

“You’re missing the point. It doesn’t have to be your watch. It could be a note. You give me a note in 1981 that says, _Welcome to 1881._ I bring it back with me and give it to you, you keep it until you’re a hundred and twenty-nine and give it to me, a little boy, who grows up to travel through time back to 1881 and give it to you, and you grow old, and give it to me, etc. It’s a causal loop. The note has no origin, no cause.”

“I see,” he said. “Did I write the note, or did you?”

“That’s the problem. Everything has an origin, but time travel can cause a paradox where an object is passed back and forth over the years without any clear point of origin. The machine might be a causal loop. A traveler from the future gives it to Moriarty in 1702. He uses it to go forward in time, and gives it to someone, possibly the same time traveler, who uses it to go back to 1702…” I saw the flaw then. “No, that can’t work. The machine stayed behind. You can’t travel _and_ take it with you. You would have to stash it somewhere, like the British Museum…”

“Holmes,” he said suddenly. “Why did he send you here, now?”

I thought about this for a few moments, remembering all the things Moriarty had said to me that evening at the pool. Of course, he was not to be trusted. Everything he said might have been a lie. Except time travel. “He dropped me almost on the doorstep of Bedlam Hospital,” I said. “Perhaps he expected me to be taken for a madman and die there.”

“If he wanted you out of the way, why not just kill you himself?”

“He needs me for something. He needs me here, now.”

Watson shrugged. “Seems like a risky plan. Too much can go wrong.”

“Unless he already knows how it turns out. From his standpoint, all of this has already happened. Maybe I’m his guinea pig, and he’s monitoring what changes in 2010, watching the ripples after dropping me in the pond.” I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “We can’t think about this, Watson, or we’ll find ourselves running mad. We need more information, which is why we are going to Edinburgh, to look for Moriarty’s notes. I don’t expect to find him in the flesh, but perhaps we can learn something from what he left behind when he was last there.”

“I need a nap,” he said. “I can’t get my head around this.”

“Sleep, John,” I said, letting his head lean on my shoulder. “I’m going to keep thinking.”

 

Thursday, 5 January 1882 / John H Watson

It was late by the time we arrived in Edinburgh, so we immediately found an inn and got a room. After dinner, I retired to the room, thoroughly worn out from the travel, and Holmes went outside for a walk and a smoke.

I woke up when I heard him come in. It was dark by then. I didn’t know how long I’d slept, but I was still exhausted.

“You’re still not fully recovered, John,” he said, hearing me cough. “I’m sorry that I dragged you along. You need your rest.” He unbuttoned his shirt.

“I’m as eager to figure this out as you are,” I replied. “You did not drag me here.”

“Eager, yes, but there really is no hurry. If the machine works as I suppose it does, we can stay here for as long as we like, and still return to the moment I left 2010.”

“How old will you be then?” I asked.

“I was thirty-two when I left.” He pulled off his trousers and climbed into bed beside me.

“If you stay here for years, will you not age?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

I pulled him closer. “Then we must be sure to make good use of our time.”

 

Friday, 6 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

We went to the university and asked about Professor Moriarty’s papers. The tedious, fussy, bespectacled man with whom we spoke let us into the library only after Watson sweet-talked him, explaining that he was an alumnus of the institution and was planning to write a monograph on Moriarty’s theories. So clever, my Watson — and charming as well.

We were shown into the library, where we found more papers than could be digested in a week, let alone the day I’d hoped to allow. We divided them up and quickly scanned for references to _time theory, time travel,_ and _time machines_. Fortunately all but a few were written in English, though in that old style that makes some letters look like other letters. I took the Latin papers and let Watson start on the English. He is a quick reader and made short work of his pile. I can read quickly when motivated, but kept getting distracted by the professor’s prolific theories on a variety of subjects.

Watson huffed with impatience at my many detours from the page and left to explore the Professor’s cottage, which had been preserved by some devoted disciple.

He returned in an hour, giving me a knowing wink as he entered the room. I noted that he was carrying a rather large bag, such as a doctor might carry. As I watched his slowly growing smile, I understood. My Watson is a genius.

I finished my perusal of the notebooks and we left, heading back to our room. Once inside, I kissed him with passion for several minutes. When our lips parted at last, I said, “We need to leave town at once, my dear, before we are arrested.”

“For kissing?” he asked innocently, wrapping his arms around me and sliding one hand into my trousers.

“No, for stealing a time machine.”


	6. The Oracle of the Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a physicist or any type of scientist. I want to remind readers that this is science fiction. I have attempted to make my explanations here consistent and somewhat sensible, but they are obviously not scientific. Thank you for taking this journey with me!

Saturday, 7 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

Watson surprised me this morning. He knew yesterday was my birthday, I suppose from the hospital admission papers, that information having been recorded when I was still babbling and incoherent from traveling through time. I could not say how old I am. Negative ninety-five, if we go by the calendar.

He bought me a violin. Used, of course, and somewhat battered, but the thought behind it made my eyes tear up. He had noted my interest a few days ago and somehow arranged to purchase an instrument from Mr Iacomo and have it sent to Baker Street without my knowledge.

I cannot remember when I last received a birthday present. My parents and brother were not big believers in rewards for simply existing another year. I told this to Watson when I opened the case and saw the violin. He simply said, “Well, this year you’ve earned something. From me, at least. Many happy returns.” He smiled. “Mr Iacomo gave me a good discount. He said it was an excellent violin for the price, so I hope it meets your standards. I only ask that you play it for me as often as possible.”

“My love,” I said. “Whenever I play, it will always be for you.”

 

Monday, 9 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

Watson has eliminated one difficulty. Thanks to him, we no longer have to figure out how to steal a time machine from the British Museum.

I am cautioned by my level-headed lover to be certain before we undertake this adventure. To satisfy him, I am going through Moriarty’s notes again, which are much more revealing than his book, and have reached a conclusion: Moriarty did not invent the device; in 1702 he appeared to be trying to figure it out. Again, I wonder if he was the time traveller, or someone else. His picture in the library showed a man in early mid-life wearing a powdered wig. I try, in my memory, to compare it to the man I confronted, and fail. That man was so nondescript as to be invisible.

But the notes are useful. In Edinburgh I jotted down what seemed most relevant; the rest I retain in my eidetic memory.

He speaks of _portals,_ as he calls them, geographic locations where the quantum universe has weak spots that can be breached, allowing travel between eras. Watson was excited to hear that Delphi is one such location, as he’d used that in his time-travel story. Cumae is another such place. They were not wrong in ascribing mystic properties to these places where the two most famous oracles of the West were located. Stonehenge is one as well, and several other sites where the ancients built standing stones. There is one in Ireland, near where Moriarty grew up. Another exists in London, near Bedlam Hospital, the same one which I traveled through. I wonder how many more time-travellers can be found within that institution.

I have promised Watson that we will aim for next week. Meanwhile, I will educate him on the twenty-first century. I hate spoilers, but do not wish him to have a heart attack when he sees an airplane or a woman in a short skirt.

I look forward to flush toilets and mobile phones and the internet.

 

Wednesday 11 January 1882 / John H Watson

I have suggested to Holmes that the device needs to be tested. We don’t know if the portal will work or even if it’s still where Moriarty said it was. We don’t know how to calibrate the device. He has been reviewing Moriarty’s book and going over his notes, and keeps exclaiming, “Aha!” as he reads, but I am as much in the dark as ever.

Suddenly he jumps up, grabs my hand, and bundles me into my coat. As he wraps himself in his Inverness, he says, “What we need, Watson, cannot be found within this flat.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

“Off to violin-land,” he says, “where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony and there are no time machines to vex us with their paradoxes.”

 

We first stopped for lunch, just a sandwich and a cup of coffee, then headed to St James Hall, where the violinist Pablo de Sarasate was performing a programme of German music. Holmes had expressed an interest in hearing this particular musician, telling me that his reputation was still great over a hundred years after his death.

My knowledge of classical music is limited, my taste more inclined to Gilbert and Sullivan, but I cheerfully went along. I knew it might improve his mood and thought process to lose himself in music for a few hours, so I did not complain, even though we could only afford the cheapest admission tickets, which required us to stand. My bad leg was aching by the time the final applause began, but it was worth it to see Holmes transfixed, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, completely immersed, his eyes languid and dreamy, his smile gentle. 

I remembered observing those fingers when I was examining him in the asylum, and thinking, _This man is an artist._ I was not wrong. He might call himself a detective, but he has the heart and soul of a musician. 

 

Friday, 13 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

Today we attempted to send a tiny time traveller into the future — as short a journey as we could imagine. Watson managed to trap a mouse in our kitchen. This small creature is our Christopher Columbus, embarking on a journey to a new world: the future.

We chose a spot close to where I calculated the portal to be. It was near where I was found, asleep in the bushes, after my journey. For our first attempt, I planned to send the creature a few minutes into the future. After setting the dials and starting the device, I looked at the mouse, in Watson’s hand, who was twitching its whiskers, suspecting no evil plan to send it through time.

“What’s wrong?” Watson asked.

“Moriarty had me put my hand on the knob,” I said. “He told me that it generates a sort of current that flows through your body.”

“I thought it was more of a field,” he said. “Generated by the portal.”

“No. If it were a field, anyone in the vicinity might be sucked along for the ride. The current is what allows you to pass through the field — the portal — into the stream of time. He was very specific that I had to touch that projecting knob, in the centre of the dials.”

Watson picked up the mouse by its tail and lowered it onto the knob. He and the mouse both disappeared.

“Watson!” I cried. “Oh, God — the current! He was touching the mouse!”

This was the longest five minutes I had ever lived through. _Dear God_ , I thought, _I’ve killed him_. This was a very unscientific thought. I had no reason to think he would not reappear, since my own journey had ended as expected — as Moriarty had expected, at least. Watson had not hesitated, most likely because he had not stopped to consider that the current, like an electrical current, might be conducted through one living creature into any other creatures touching it. Like a fool, rushing in where scientists fear to tread. Nevertheless, it had taken guts to do it. I had chosen my companion well. _Now, if only he would reappear_.

I sat there, breathless, on the ground in the alley for what felt like an hour. At last I covered my face with my hands and allowed myself to feel the full impact of my situation. “John…” I moaned.

It was then that I heard him walk up behind where I crouched, frozen in expectation, before the machine. I jumped to my feet and spun around.

He was holding the mouse by its tail. He looked a but stunned. The mouse was doing what mice do, looking around, sniffing the air. “I’m not sure what happened,” he said, slipping the creature into his pocket.

I sprang to my feet and embraced him. I’m afraid I was a bit tearful. “That was dangerous,” I scolded him. “You shouldn’t have been touching the mouse when it touched the knob.”

“Pardon me,” he said, “I’m a bit—.” He fell into the grass and vomited.

I dropped to my knees beside him and felt his pulse. It was rapid, but not out of bounds.

“Sorry,” he said. He heaved again. “Ugh.”

I shook myself. “We’ll have to drop the mouse on the knob. We can’t risk another experiment with either of us.”

He sat up, spitting the bile from his mouth. “I’m fine,” he coughed. “It felt instantaneous. What happened to those minutes?”

I couldn’t answer him. My mind was racing through too many possibilities. “This is dangerous,” I said at last. “I’m not sure.”

“What are you saying?” He frowned. “We should stay here and not go to 2010 because it made me sick? Just a hazard of travel, my dear man, like seasickness. If anything, this simplifies things. All we have to do is hold hands when we—”

“No! No, Watson. Moriarty was quite specific. I asked why he would not accompany me and he explained that the current is enough to carry one body only. Had this mouse been a cat or a dog or another person, I cannot say what would have happened to you. No, we cannot risk this.”

He was incredulous. “What? You’re prepared to live out your life in 1882?”

“John, I can’t risk losing you. I would rather stay here than have something go wrong. I don’t know what I’m doing, how this works —”

“No,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “I am _not_ content to stay in 1882. You’ve read all the notes and the damn book, I found the bloody machine — we’re going to do this! You didn’t know what you were doing when you left 2010, and yet, here you are, alive. This is dangerous, to be sure, but we are explorers, about to embark on a journey of discovery — not across oceans, but across time itself! What if men had never taken to the sea in ships? Where would civilisation be? I want to embark on this voyage, to travel to the future — with you.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid, John. When I offered to bring you back with me, I knew nothing of the process. Now it feels wrong to drag you into this risky venture.”

He gave me a look I knew all too well: stubborn. “You’re not dragging me. I volunteered. Fear and danger go hand in hand. But without risk, no venture would be worth taking.Danger is the essence of discovery.”

I smiled at him. “You’re brave enough for both of us, I wager. But I would feel better if we think this through a bit more. We ought to carry out a few more tests.”

“Of course. We’ll try it again. This time, we will drop the mouse on the device.” He returned my smile. “And I promise not to go off half-cocked this time.”

“Right.”

This time the creature disappeared as predicted. We rejoiced, cautiously. Then we waited. It took a bit longer than I had anticipated, but in a few minutes it reappeared, none the worse for its travels. Once more, we rejoiced.

Watson, the voice of common sense and reason, then pointed out that our own destination would be over a hundred years into the future, and we should test a longer interval. A day, he suggested.

“That will be problematic,” I said. “We will have to wait here to catch the mouse when it reappears, and we don’t know exactly where that will be. Nor am I sure how precise the timing of this device is.”

“Have you figured out how it’s calibrated?” asked Watson. “How precisely can you set the destination time?”

I was pacing now. “The calendar is an ephemeral thing, a cultural artefact. The device is attuned to the physics of time — revolutions and orbits of the earth and the moon. Unfortunately, I deleted the entire solar system when I was younger.”

“Deleted? How did you achieve that?”

“I simply blocked it from my memory. Rash, perhaps, but I did not see the use of knowing about it and did not want to waste the space it would take up. Now, of course, I wish I hadn’t. I’ve been relearning it, but the texts in 1882 are not as advanced as those of my time. I think I can calibrate within days, perhaps hours.”

“Well, let’s send the creature back in time,” Watson said. “That ought to be safe. We can put a note on it, so when it appears in our kitchen yesterday, we’ll know what it’s there for. And we won’t have to wait. It will already be in my trap, waiting for us when we go back.”

“Or will it?” I said. “It may appear back here, near the portal. And in that case, it may have just returned.” I nodded at the creature, which was peeking out of the pocket of Watson’s waistcoat.

Watson lifted the mouse from his pocket. “I dub thee _Causal Loop,_ ” he said _._ “Let’s try sending him back. At least we might learn something.”

I set the dials once again, calibrating it for what I estimated was twenty-four hours earlier.

The mouse did not reappear. Nor was it in our kitchen when we returned to the flat. Neither of us could say what this meant.

 

Saturday, 14 January 1882 / John H Watson

It seemed obvious to me that the mouse had materialised somewhere near the portal. “Didn’t he say this was a rule of time travel, that it must occur near a portal?”

Holmes was lying on the sofa, his eyes closed. “Then what happened to the mouse in our kitchen? Where did it come from? The mouse we tested was the one you caught in the trap. It couldn’t be both at the Bedlam portal and in the trap.”

I didn’t know the answer to this. “Hm. I guess _Causal Loop_ was an appropriate moniker for the little fellow.”

“I think,” Holmes said. He templed his hands in front of his face and closed his eyes again. Obviously, it took no deductive skills to tell that he was, indeed, thinking.

After twenty minutes of silence, he continued. “I think that some rule is preventing us from sending the mouse back a short distance in time. It creates some kind of paradox. Let’s say that you wanted to relive some moment in your life — your first kiss, perhaps. You set the machine to go back to age — how old were you?”

I blushed. “Fifteen.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And the young lady’s name?”

“Percival Phelps.”

He raised his other eyebrow. “Ah. So. Not a lady.”

I blushed harder. “Well, Sherlock, what is the name of the _lady_ with whom you first shared a kiss? If I am forced to reveal my embarrassments, I think it fair that you also kiss and tell, yes?”

“Not important,” he said. “So, you set the device to go back fourteen years, to kiss your friend Percy. What happens? Either you find yourself fifteen again, kissing your friend (not a terrible outcome), or you find yourself at twenty-nine kissing a fifteen year old boy (a bit not good), or there are two of you, fifteen and twenty-nine, vying for Mr Phelp’s affections (depending on your viewpoint, either creepy or kinky). By the way, did it go well? Did he kiss you back?”

“He did. Unfortunately, his father caught us and we both received an unparalleled thrashing.”

“Sorry to make you relive it, then. We could plan to whisk you away before his father shows up, but we still have our logic problem to deal with. What happens?”

“Well, I don’t think there can be two of me. My molecules would have to double and occupy two spaces in the same time.”

He nodded. “Very good, Watson. You think like a physicist.”

I coloured at the praise. “Nor can I be fifteen again when the body I am transporting has already aged, unless the process itself somehow de-ages my body. And then what? Do I have to wait fourteen years to grow up again? If so, what happened to my twenty-nine year old body?”

He smiled. “Continue.”

“If I’m twenty-nine when I materialise fourteen years ago, where is my fifteen year old body? It can’t simply disappear, can it?”

“That’s the problem. None of these outcomes make any sense. Therefore, none of them can occur. So what happened to the mouse?”

“We killed it.”

“So, at this point, there is no mouse. But we couldn’t have killed it because no mouse ever existed, and our experiment did not happen, even though we both remember it.” He got up from the sofa and began pacing. “We have changed events in a way that makes it impossible for them to take place.”

I tried to think about this, but my head started to ache. “I think we ought to avoid coming back, or if we do, we need to pick our time carefully, not overlap with any time when we might meet ourselves. Did Moriarty have any problems with this? Any speculations?”

Holmes looked thoughtful. “All of the travels he wrote about in his notes were separated by over a hundred years. No body doubles, no overlap. No kissing young boys.” He tapped a finger to his lips as he paced. “Perhaps travel within one’s own lifetime is forbidden. It has the potential to create too many paradoxes. I was able to travel to 1881 because I hadn’t been born yet. Traveling to the future is less troublesome, I think, because you can get ahead of your future self, so to speak, and avoid having two bodies.”

The nerves I was already feeling grew tauter. “We must be careful in our timing. You left on the first of April. What time?”

“Just after midnight. I’ll set the device for several hours after that. There cannot be two of me if I’m already gone.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re not afraid, John?”

“I have less to fear than you, if our theory is correct. It must be your decision, Sherlock. Whether you choose to go or to stay, I will be at your side.”

He put his arms around me. “You are a wonder, John. You are kinder and braver than any man I have known. However, being brave and being foolish are not mutually exclusive. To make sure we are not being foolish, I will study his notes again. I am confident, however, that whatever risk I subject myself to is well worth it, considering what mischief Moriarty might make.”

We left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, warm thank you to RosiePaw for the concert tickets! Just what our boys needed!


	7. The Stream of Time

Sunday 15 January, 1882 / John H Watson

“It’s time,” Sherlock said. “Let’s prepare.”

My mouth was dry and I could feel my elevated pulse pounding. There was no further reason for delay. Within a few hours, we were going to leave 1882 and (we hoped) find ourselves in 2010.

It was late Sunday evening. Having reassured himself of the theoretical preparations, Sherlock had turned his focus to more practical matters.

“What do we need to do?” I asked, hoping my voice was not as shaky as the rest of me.

“Clothing. We need to fit in more easily, style-wise, to the extent possible. I doubt that anyone will take a very close look at us. Worst case, they’ll think we’re hipsters, or that we raided a vintage clothing store.” He laughed.

I didn’t know what a hipster was, but decided that there were more important points to address. “Sherlock, what happens if we’re separated?”

“What?” He was rubbing his hand along his jaw, thinking. “Separated? I don’t think that will happen. I’ll send you, and then follow. I won’t change the settings on the device, so we should both materialise near the portal.

I was thinking _If time is a stream, can you ever step into the same stream twice?_ “Won’t you need to recalibrate before you go? I mean, even the few seconds between our departures could mean—”

He turned and regarded me, finally recognising my anxiety. “John, the London we’re going to may be different from this one, but the streets are mostly the same and many of the same buildings you know will be standing. If you don’t see me after an hour has passed, come here, to Baker Street. My landlady is Mrs Hudson. She can take care of you until I arrive. This will be our rendezvous point if we should be separated.” He put his arms around me then, and I calmed. “You know enough about 2010 to make your way there. You’re resourceful and braver than any man I know, including myself.”

My throat was tight and for a few minutes I didn’t trust myself to speak. I suppose I am a sentimental man, and the thought that I was leaving the only world I’d ever known, perhaps never to return, was finally sinking in. It wasn’t just a jaunt across the years, as my story’s protagonist had taken. I couldn’t simply catch the next train back to 1882 if something went wrong. This was physics and space and time — and most certainly biology. My accidental trip had left me nauseated and shaky. What would happen to my body during a longer transit? Did the amount of time traversed even matter? I kept thinking about the mouse.

I thought of my words to Holmes three days earlier about danger and discovery. I had meant them. Now, at the eleventh hour, what I was feeling was natural, I told myself. It was anxiety, no more. Surely every great explorer had experienced some pangs of nerves. Holmes had been over the notes numerous times, and was now certain we would be safe. I trusted him completely. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

“What shall we wear?” I was in my shirtsleeves and trousers.

“First, we need to get rid of your moustache. And cut your hair.”

I raised my hand to my face. “But… surely men in 2010 have moustaches?”

“Yours is very Victorian. If we want to blend in, you need to lose it. Your hair is fine, though perhaps it should be trimmed a bit.”

I washed my hair first, then took a pair of scissors and began to trim back my moustache, making it easier to shave. I felt some regret as I saw clumps of hair fall into the sink.

“It will grow back, love,” he said gently.

I finished shaving and towelled my face. Presenting myself for inspection, I said, “Well?”

He took my face in his hands and looked down at me. “My God. You look so young, John, like a boy. I hardly know you.”

“I’m twenty-nine,” I replied, smiling nervously. “Hardly a boy.”

He kissed me. “You’re my boy.”

“You were going to cut my hair,” I said, handing him the scissors.

“I think shorter and more layered would be best. You won’t be using hair oil in 2010. Nobody does.” He ran his fingers through my clean hair. “I’m not a trained stylist, but I think I can make it presentable.”

When he was done, he showed me the mirror. My hair, layered as it now was, remained blond on top, with the exposed layers below nearly brown.

“My clothing,” I said. “You know what I have.”

He nodded. “The shirt will do. It’s not as tailored as the styles of 2010, but I suppose Victorian men are rarely seen without waistcoat and jacket. We don’t know what season we’ll land in, though if I’ve configured the device correctly, it should be April the first, sometime in the early morning.”

“You left in April, but landed in October,” I pointed out.

“True, but that might have been Moriarty’s doing. As I’ve said, it is not calibrated by calendar dates. Do you have a jumper?”

I had an old Aran an aunt had made for me when I left for medical school. Holmes said it would work. “No waistcoat. Put your tweed jacket over the jumper.”

I did as he asked. “What about my trousers?”

“They’ll do. Your jumper will cover the high waistband and your braces. We can get you some jeans and an anorak or parka in 2010. And some trainers — shoes. Very popular.”

I picked up my bowler and set it on my head.

He laughed and plucked it off. “The twenty-first century is not one for hats, my dear. Ball caps, perhaps, but few men wear hats as they do now.” He tossed it onto the sofa.

“No hats?” It hadn’t occurred to me that something so basic could change. “How do they manage? In the summer, perhaps, but when the weather is inclement, a hat is necessary. Why, people would be sick all the time if—”

“You forget, Doctor, that we have antibiotics. A simple cold rarely turns serious in 2010. People might wear a hat for warmth when the temperature drops, but do not be surprised when you see that many are bare-headed. And the ladies—” he chuckled. “You will see bare legs, Watson, even in winter. I hope it doesn’t give you a heart attack.”

“Ridiculous!” I said, blushing.

“We spend less time outdoors, I suppose, what with heated cabs and trains. The people of my world are hot-house flowers compared to yours. No one in 2010 would put up with open windows and cold bedrooms.”

He’d put on the clothing he’d arrived in, his tailored jacket and trousers, over a plain white shirt of cotton.

“Help me with this,” he said, gesturing to a wooden box near the door. “I’m putting it in the basement, if you could get the doors.”

“What’s in it?” I said, opening the door for him. I followed him down the stairs towards the unused basement apartment. He pulled out a key and handed it to me. I turned it in the lock and the door swung open. The room smelled dry and a bit dusty.

“Just some papers, a few notes that I might want in 2010.” He smiled. “The room is not damp, so they should be all right for the next hundred and twenty-odd years. I’m not sure it’s possible to bring something like this through time. Fortunately, things last longer than people.”

“What if someone finds them before we get there?” It was strange to speak of time as a destination, I thought. Here was Holmes putting his papers in a basement closet which he expected to open in another century and find them intact.

“It’s possible. What a romantic mystery for someone to solve!” He grinned at me. “No one will know what happened to us, you realise. We will simply disappear and people will assume the worst. We’ll have to check the news archives when we get there, see what they made of our disappearance.”

There was no one in 1882 who would miss me, who would look into my disappearance or go to the police about it. I had no job, no family, no friends except Holmes. It was probable that no one would even notice I was gone until the next month’s rent was due.

“I’ve paid this month’s rent,” I said. “We owe no money to anyone. I suppose it’s useless to carry any cash.”

“A coin dealer might be interested, but you probably won’t get much for it. Old coins are fairly common. Your watch will be worth something, however.”

“May I bring it?” I hoped he would not insist on my leaving it behind. He’d cautioned me not to carry any personal items.

“I don’t think it’s a problem. You’re attached to it, and it shouldn’t draw any questions.”

I didn’t say anything about the other item I carried, my service revolver, which was tucked into my back waistband. I did not know what dangers we might face in 2010, but a gun will always be useful when the unexpected happens. And perhaps an antique weapon might put some money in my pocket if I took it to a pawnbroker. I felt safer with it on me.

A distant clock tower began to chime midnight. I heard another join in.

 

Monday, 16 January 1882 / John H Watson

I tried to contain my fear and excitement as we made our way to St George’s Fields in the early hours of January the sixteenth. Holmes seemed almost buoyant, and I wondered what he was most looking forward to.

“I can’t wait to show you around,” he said. “You’re going to be amazed. Airplanes!” he exclaimed. “You’ve never see an airplane! No flying cars, though, I’m afraid.”

I took a final survey of the buildings and green spaces of 1882. I remembered departing for India some years earlier as a young army doctor. Then I’d felt excited to be going somewhere, happy to begin a new phase of my life. Certainly I had no idea I’d be seriously wounded, fall ill and nearly die. But I remember embarking on the steamer that would take me to Alexandria, looking back across the water, and having the sudden thought that I might never see England again.

“Will we materialise at the hospital?” I asked.

“It’s not a hospital in 2010. It’s the Imperial War Museum,” he said. “The building looks about the same. The school where I made my departure is across the street. We may not end up in the exact spot we leave from. Not sure how that works.” He was talking to himself. “We’ll find the portal. It may be that it moves around a bit. We’ll see.”

“What’s to prevent us from materialising inside a wall?” I asked.

He grinned. “That would be inconvenient. But Moriarty’s notes indicate that the laws of physics will not allow two solid objects to exist in the same space. Your landing place will be determined by physical realities. Ah, here we are.” He took the device out of the case and began looking at the dials.

I wished he had explained to me more about the device. “Will you bring the device with you?”

He shook his head. “The device itself cannot travel through the portal. I’ll leave it here. No doubt someone will find it and it will once more end up in a museum. Moriarty made several devices, which he kept in locations where they would not be disturbed. Now that we know where the other two are, we should be able to travel again, should the need arise.”

“Sherlock—” I said.

“Hm.” He was fiddling with the device. “There we are.” He looked at me, smiling. “I’ll send you first, then follow right after.”

“Sherlock, I just want to say—” I could feel my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. “I feel so privileged to have met you. If anything should happen—”

“No worries,” he said. His smile was confident. “We’ll be fine.”

My heart was beating as if it were trying to escape from my chest. “Sherlock, I…”

Setting the device on the ground, he put his arms around me. We embraced wordlessly for a long time. He rubbed the back of my head and gradually my breathing slowed, though not to a normal pace.

“John,” he said softly. “There is no timeline in which we will not find one another. Though it’s a romantic notion, I’m convinced that I was meant to find you, that I will always find you.”

We kissed slowly, deliberately. “I love you,” I whispered. I reminded myself of what he’d told me about the time we would be traveling to, how our love would be nothing shameful, where we could live openly as lovers and even be married.

“And I love you, John. Always.”

He let go of me and took a step back. “Ready?”

I steeled myself. “I am.”

“Lay your hand on the device.”

Keeping my eyes on him, I raised my hand. His eyes met and held mine, and as I touched the device, I heard him say, “See you soon.”

 

\- End of Part I - 


	8. Man Without a Hat (2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 4

2010 / John H Watson

Maybe I was standing on Lambeth Road. Feeling a bit dizzy, but not nauseous, I turned around to get my bearings. Set back from the road, across a green lawn, was the familiar hospital building. No longer a hospital. A sign said _Imperial War Museum._

It was early morning; I could not see the sun for the tall buildings, but its rays had begun to illuminate the darkness. Overhead, I saw streetlights glowing, not with the yellow of gaslights, but bluish. _Electricity,_ Holmes had explained. A novelty in my time, it was now used for everything — lights, heat, appliances. Coming from a world where these things depended on fire, I found it strange.

Rainy and cold. I shivered, wishing that I had worn my greatcoat. Flipping up the lapels of my tweed jacket, I buttoned it all the way up and put my hands in my trouser pockets.

2010 was not only bright in a way I had scarcely expected; it sounded different as well. Had I been a blind man I would have known instantly that I was in a different world. _No horses, no cart wheels bumping over cobblestones._ I felt, rather than heard, a humming all around, some of it distant and some overhead. I looked up at the lights again, now recognising them as the source of some of the hum. I heard the thrum of motors, near and distant.

An unfamiliar odour hung in the air — oil or something similar. _Fuel. Holmes said their automobiles use a petroleum fuel._ I saw several vehicles pass in the street, an eerie sight to watch them glide over the smooth street, their motors humming quietly along the amazingly clean and smooth street. Holmes had said _no flying cars,_ but these vehicles looked as if they might take flight.

I do not know how long I stood there, simply breathing and taking it all in. Looking around, I found a sheltered bench and sat on it. _Not much longer._ I would wait for Holmes and use the time to acclimate myself.

The streets around me became busier. When I tired of watching the automobiles, I looked at the people and the clothing they wore. Holmes had warned me that people dressed far less modestly in the twenty-first century, but other than the short skirts some of the ladies wore with dark stockings, it was too chilly to observe much immodesty. People clutched scarves and braced themselves behind umbrellas.

A woman wearing trousers sat down next to me. At first I took her for a man because of her short, blue hair, but her form-fitting jumper told me I was mistaken. She had a ring in her nose, several studs in her earlobe. I had to distract myself by studying the transportation map so that I would not stare at her. Almost at once she took a flat, rectangular object out of her pocket and began to move her finger over the surface. _A telephone,_ I realised. Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I tried to figure out how the device worked. The flat surface flashed images at her. She touched the images, but did not speak into it.

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

She glanced up and then quickly returned her attention to the device.

“Excuse me, but could you tell me the date?”

“It’s Friday.”

“Erm, thank you. Would you also happen to know the calendar date?”

“Twenty-ninth.”

I did not know the month, but it might sound strange to ask, and she was not very friendly. It occurred to me that having a strange man accost her on the street was rather off-putting.

“Much obliged,” I said, reaching to tip my hat. When my hand touched my hair instead, I was momentarily surprised. I felt a bit underdressed when I realised this, but no one else seemed to be wearing bowlers or Hombergs, either. A few wore knit hats.

A large red vehicle pulled up to the kerb in front of us. _A double-decker omnibus._ I had seen the horse-drawn variety, which were common in my day. The young lady stood and, without taking her eyes off the device in her hand, climbed into the vehicle and took a seat.

I had no money. I had two objects which I might hock, but didn’t know how to find a pawn shop. Though I was hungry, cold, and exhausted, I wasn’t desperate yet. At that moment, a cup of tea would have hit the spot.

I estimated that I had been sitting on the bench for under an hour. The sky brightened a bit, the chilly rain ended, the traffic increased, more omnibuses came and went. Looking at the angle of the sun, I estimated that it was sometime between eight and nine o’clock in the morning. I crossed the street and peered through the wrought iron fence surrounding the hospital grounds, looking for a lanky figure with dark, curly hair. I could have spotted him from his posture or his walk, even from behind, so well did I know his frame and gait, but I did not see him.

 _I’ll follow right after,_ he’d said. It struck me how ridiculous it was, really, to think time travel was like boarding a train, expecting to see one another at the next station. He might have followed right after, but that did not mean he would appear any time soon. Or he might have been delayed. Perhaps the device had malfunctioned. This made my gut twist, thinking of him stuck in 1882 while I was wandering around in 2010.

 _The flat_. That’s where we would meet, he’d said. He would know to look for me there. I began to walk.

 _It’s Friday, the twenty-ninth of something._ I stopped short. The man walking behind me cursed and went around. Everyone was moving quickly and seemed to have little patience.

 _What if this isn’t 2010?_ My thought about the device malfunctioning haunted me. What if I was in a different year? How would Holmes and I ever find one another? I knew where the portal was, and I might find a device, but I didn’t know how to use it. I was, in effect, stranded.

I looked around for a newsboy, but saw none. A few people carried newspapers, but I saw no one selling them, where I might at least catch a glimpse of the date. After several blocks, I found an abandoned paper sticking out of a trash bin. I pulled it out and looked at the front page, which was full of colour pictures and several stories ( _Mogadishu… North Korea… Al-Jazeera… Tony Blair_ ) which did not interest me at the moment, though maybe later I’d read them.

The date: Friday, 29 January 2010.

Relief rushed over me. I stuck the paper in my pocket and I quickly began to make my way towards Baker Street. Everything began to feel more familiar. I was still wary of the swiftly-moving automobiles that filled the streets, but many of the buildings were ones I remembered.

It was an hour’s walk. I felt weary by the time I turned onto Baker Street and found number 221, but my hopes had risen. I was almost home. I stood at the familiar door and rapped twice with the door knocker.

The door was opened by an older lady. “Is the bell broken?” she asked.

“Bell?” I looked for a bell pull but saw none.

She reached around the doorframe and pushed a button. I heard a chime ring inside the building.

“Well, that’s all right then,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Madam,” I said, bowing and once again reaching for my non-existent hat.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling pleasantly. I started to feel a bit more at home and prepared to explain my presence.

“Oh,” she said suddenly. “You’re here about the flat!”

“Why, yes,” I said. “Mr Holmes told me—”

“Yes, of course.” She ushered me inside. “I’m Mrs Hudson, the landlady. Sherlock mentioned just this morning that he’d be looking for a flatmate to share the rent. I hadn’t expected anyone quite so soon, Mister…”

“Watson is my name,” I said, bowing again. “Dr John Watson.”

“Oh, my! A doctor — how lovely! Would you like to see the flat now?”

I looked up the stairs, feeling tempted. It would be something to see how our cozy flat had changed over the years, but I was anxious about Holmes. The flat could wait until I’d located him.

“Actually, I was hoping to find Mr Holmes here. Would he, by chance, be at home?”

“He stopped by early, told me he’d be at Barts this morning. He promised to be back by lunch time to sign the lease.”

Barts, the hospital where I’d done my surgical training. “Thank you. I shall attempt to meet up with him there.” I gave her another bow. “Good morning, Mrs Hudson.”

She smiled. “My, such a gentleman! He’ll be in the pathology lab, he said. Working on another of his experiments, no doubt.”

 

The walk to the hospital was another hour. I was quite famished, but too excited to eat anything, even if I’d had money to buy something. Soon I would find Holmes, and all would be well. He no doubt would have access to currency, hot tea, and food. We would laugh about how he left after me, but arrived before. I made my way inside, found a reception desk, and inquired about the location of the pathology lab. The young lady directed me to a lift.

I’d heard of these contraptions, of course, but had never seen one, much less ridden in one. I thought of asking for the stairs, remembering lift accidents I’d heard about when the brakes failed or the cable broke. But I gathered my courage, reasoning that a hospital, of all places, would not have installed a lift if the things were dangerous. I stepped into the machine along with several other people and (with some trepidation) watched the doors slide shut. The lab was on the floor below the one I’d entered on, I’d been told. There were lit buttons on a panel which represented destinations. G represented the ground floor, and B was apparently the basement. I saw the B was lit, so I stood with the others, silently waiting for the journey to begin. The doors slid open and we filed inside. I felt it lurch as we set off, but it carried on quite smoothly; within seconds the doors opened on the basement floor. A sign directed me left to the pathology lab.

As I approached the door, I felt a bit giddy, almost light-headed. A woman, approaching from the other direction with two cardboard cups in her hand, reached the door and attempted to balance one cup on top of the other in order to turn the knob.

“Allow me,” I said, holding the door open. The sign said: Pathology Lab.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

I followed her into the lab.

Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Can I help you?”

Holmes sat on a stool, peering into the eyepiece of a microscope. He did not look up.

“My name is Watson,” I managed. Somehow I restrained my hand from reaching for my hat. My voice trembled. I cleared my throat. “Dr John Watson.”

He glanced up at me. Then his eyes returned to the microscope.

_He doesn’t know me yet._

I felt as if the floor had dropped out beneath me. I might have let out a gasp. Reaching for the nearest surface, the lab table, I was able to steady myself. _How had this fact escaped me?_ I had seen the date on the newspaper, but it hadn’t registered in my mind. Holmes hadn’t travelled to 1881, hadn’t yet met me. He was not due to leave 2010 until April 1. Remembering the mouse, I began to worry in earnest. If logic forbade Holmes from entering the time stream before he left it, where was he now? What would happen on April 1?

And how had I arrived so early? Had he miscalibrated the device? I looked at the familiar face that was giving me a curious look. Though this Holmes probably had no inkling of the journey he would take on April 1, what if he decided not to go? The 2010 where he had started his journey had already changed — due to the fact that I was here.

“I’m Dr Hooper,” the woman said. “Are you looking for someone? This is the pathology lab. Patients don’t usually come here.”

“I’m not a patient,” I said. “I’m looking for—”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” His voice.

“Wha— what?” I stammered.

He looked up from the microscope again. “Did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

My mouth opened and closed. I did not know what to say to this Sherlock Holmes. The room started swimming and I suddenly felt very ill. “I’m afraid… Awfully sorry, but I’m going to…”

I felt strong arms grab me and push me down into a chair.

“Put your head between your knees,” Holmes commanded. I felt his hand on the back of my head and remembered how he had stroked my hair just hours ago, before I left.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I didn’t intend—”

“You’re not well.” He was feeling the pulse in my neck. “Molly, go fetch this man some tea. Do you take milk?”

I nodded.

“Tea with milk, and a few biscuits. Those chocolate ones I like.”

I heard the door close. My vision blurred and I felt the blood rushing in my ears. As the fit waned, I tried to raise my head.

“Nice antique you’ve got here,” he said, crouching down before me.

I looked up and saw that he’d found my revolver.

“You’ve been seriously ill,” he said. “Pneumonia, perhaps. You’ve only just recovered and are still weak.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Military posture and bearing. And the limp. And the tan lines on your wrists. Army surgeon. You’ve been back a while.”

I laughed a bit hysterically. _You’ve no idea._

“Someone is after you,” he said.

This was true. I had naturally hoped that Holmes was following right after me, but now that did not seem possible. He was here, right in front of me, but neither of us was _when_ I expected us to be.

And perhaps Moriarty would be after me, too.

In my wooziness, I had the presence of mind not to tell my entire story. If Holmes had not gone back in time yet, I must not stop that from happening. He had to go back in order for us to meet. I had to be careful how much I told him, or I might inadvertently change both the future and the past. The best plan would be to simply stay away from him, find myself a place to wait until April 1 had come and gone. In this way, I might avoid influencing him in any way.

But I had no money, no place to live, no friends except the man standing before me. And he did not yet know who I was.

“I’ve come about the flat,” I said. Best to pretend we had never met.

Clear, grey eyes studied me dispassionately. “I hadn’t advertised yet.”

“Word of mouth,” I said. “I talked with Mrs Hudson.”

Dr Hooper returned with a cup of tea and the requested biscuits.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Much better, thank you.” I gratefully sipped the tea.

“You still look like hell,” Holmes said. “You haven’t eaten or slept in a while.” He studied my clothing, then my face. “You’ve had some kind of shock, I’d say.”

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

A stocky man wearing glasses opened the door and leaned in. “Hey, Sherlock. Any prospective flatmates yet?”

“The position’s been filled, Stamford.” Holmes cocked his head at me, his pale eyes curious. “Meet John Watson.”

 

Once I’d eaten a few biscuits and finished my tea, I felt somewhat restored. Holmes seemed to have lost interest in his experiment, which, according to Dr Hooper, involved beating corpses with a riding crop to observe bruising patterns.Knowing the man as I did, I was not appalled.

“Let’s go look at the flat,” he said. “Then maybe you can tell me what trouble brought you here.”

We took a cab, which he paid for. This being my first trip in an automobile, I’m afraid I gaped out the window, watching the buildings rush by. In minutes we disembarked on Baker Street. I took in the details I had been too overwhelmed to notice before. Our row of terrace houses was there, the front door of 221B still painted dark green, but the bricks darkened by the years. A sandwich shop now occupied the first floor of the building.

Holmes pressed the bell, and Mrs Hudson opened the door. “Sherlock! I’ve already met your handsome friend.” She winked at me. “Do come up and see the flat, Doctor.”

I climbed the familiar stairs, my head full of memories. _Holmes and I, going to see the flat for the first time. His emotional reaction to seeing his home. My emotional reaction to hearing the price._ I had, of course, seen the flat when it was nearly new. Now I saw the layers of paint, the faded wallpaper, and noted spots where the floor boards were stained and the walls had sagged, leaving cracks. I heard more creaking when I walked across the floor. It seemed well lived-in.

“How long have you had the building?” I asked Mrs Hudson.

“Ten years. Right after my husband passed I came back to London and used the money he’d left me to buy it. I’m afraid it rather looks its age. Built in 1878, I believe.”

“1877,” I said.

Holmes was coming back down the hall towards the sitting room. “One bedroom?”

“There’s another room right above,” she said. “You can have that as well. It’s connected by the stairway over there.” She gestured to the right of the hearth.

“Used to be a lumber room,” I commented, speaking mostly to myself.

“Why, yes, it did. I had it opened up when I bought the building. An extra room is always useful. You could make it into a study… Or if you’ll be needing separate bedrooms…”

“Of course,” said Holmes.

 _Two nights ago, we made love in that bedroom, fell asleep in each other’s arms,_ I thought. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s all sorts around here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.”

I tried to process this. Before I could think of a reply, the bell rang and Mrs Hudson went to answer it.

Holmes cast another look around the room and nodded. “What do you say, Doctor? Shall we take it?”

“Mrs Hudson seems to know you well,” I commented.

He smiled. “I did her a favour some years ago. Her husband was sentenced to death in Florida. Double murder.”

“You kept him from execution?”

“Oh, no, I ensured it.” He grinned. “She’s giving us quite a discount. It’s a prime location, but with two living here, it should be quite affordable. Are you amenable to sharing the flat with me? I realise there’s a lot you don’t know about me. My habits are quite irregular.”

“I am amenable, Mr Holmes,” I said.

“Please,” he said, “call me Sherlock.”

 

I slept that night in a small bed in what used to be our lumber room. I had no possessions to bring over, no idea how I would pay my portion of the rent. I could not even practice medicine, I realised, with so many scientific developments having changed what doctors did. I felt a sense of despair, seeing no clear way to live here without confiding in someone. I could not afford to be honest with anyone; it could endanger the very life I’d come here to find.

I could hear Holmes moving around downstairs, unpacking boxes and stowing things in closets and drawers. I remembered how I had taken him in, shared my shabby room with him, and allowed him to turn my life in a new direction. He had seemed surprised that I trusted him, and for a while, I wondered if I had made a mistake. But for every liberty he’d taken, he’d repaid me in full. _At least I have him here with me._

He started to play his violin, a lyric, haunting melody that I had heard him play over a hundred years ago. This brought tears to my eyes but, at the same time, it soothed me. Eventually, I slept.


	9. I Know Psychopaths

Saturday, 30 January 2010

He was seated at the breakfast table drinking a cup of tea when I came down in the morning. For a moment I almost forgot that we were strangers.

“Good morning, John,” he said.

My heart lurched at his use of my Christian name. We had taken so long to get there, and had done so only when alone, but in this world people were quick to adopt familiarity. It felt false. I knew him, but he did not yet know me. We had not earned familiarity.

I nodded. “Sherlock.”

“I made you some tea,” he said.

“Thank you. Most kind of you.”

We sat in awkward silence for a few minutes. It was awkward for me, at any rate. I looked around the kitchen, trying to understand what I was seeing. A sink, a range, a kettle. A large icebox. Machines whose functions I could not guess, all flashing a digital time display: _08:10._

Holmes studied me with his pale eyes.

“You have questions,” I said, accepting the cup of tea he’d poured for me. Not that I knew how to answer them.

“I make observations,” he countered, offering the milk.

“And what do you observe?” I dolloped milk into my cup.

He leaned back in his chair, holding his cup in one hand. “I observe that you are a man who owns an antique revolver and one set of clothes: a handmade Aran jumper, a collarless linen shirt, a tweed jacket, and high-waisted wool trousers, held up by braces. No labels. Yes, I checked while you were washing up. You were wearing undergarments when you came out of the loo. Rather antique, I think, but I have not had the opportunity to examine them closely. Yet.” He smiled.

“I should hope not,” I said, feeling my face flush. I wondered how I would manage when it was time to wash my small clothes. That would be soon, I feared.

He continued his observations. “Your hair is badly cut; you had a friend cut it for you rather than going to a barbershop or salon. You wore a moustache until recently, as evidenced by the skin on your upper lip, which is paler than the rest of your face. Moustache, but no beard.

“You also own an antique watch that has been handed down from some distant ancestor whose initials were HW. Henry Watson, perhaps, or Harold. It was recently polished, which tells me that you value it highly, but though you could probably get quite a lot of money for it, its value to you is primarily sentimental. Why else would you pay to have it cleaned and polished when you can scarcely afford food and clothing?You have no mobile or wallet or anything else of value. You have no driver’s license or health card or anything with your name on it. You have no money; eventually you will pawn either the watch or the revolver (the watch, I think) in order to pay your part of the rent.”

“Have no fear,” I said. “I will honour my commitment.”

“You were in the army, as I observed yesterday. Though you never answered my question—”

“Afghanistan,” I said.

“You were invalided out. The wound was in your left shoulder. You have a slight tremor in your left hand and limited movement in that arm. You also have a slight limp, which seems worse this morning. Comes and goes. Psychosomatic, I think.

“You are extremely polite, and a bit formal. You are used to wearing a hat, but recently stopped wearing it; when outdoors, you keep raising your hand to tip it and are surprised when it is missing. You are well-educated; you introduced yourself as a doctor, and last night you were reading one of my old medical reference books. You are modest; you blushed just now when I mentioned _undergarments._ Yesterday you tried not to look at Molly’s legs when she was speaking to you.” He leaned forward.

“You have recently been ill, as I mentioned yesterday. When you came to the lab yesterday you were in a state of near exhaustion and emotional excitement. As an ex-soldier, you are used to danger, but something is terrifying you.” He sat back and regarded me a bit smugly.

I sipped my tea in silence, wishing I had thought this out before I left. Sherlock would have known what to do. He could have figured out— but here he was, in fact, sitting across the table from me, reading me like a book. “And what do you deduce from all you have observed?” I said.

“You might have escaped from a religious cult, one of those that shuns the modern world.” He shook his head slightly. “No, I don’t think so. Doesn’t fit with the army bit. And you seem too sane for that sort of thing.” His grey eyes continued to take me in. “You intrigue me, Doctor, which is why you’re sitting here instead of working out whatever your Plan B was going to be. Did you have a Plan B, in case I had sent you on your way yesterday? No, I don’t think you did. There’s an air of desperation about you, Doctor. And sadness. You’re running away from something or someone, but you’ve also had to leave behind something or someone that you now grieve for.”

His words cut straight into my quick. “Well, you’re the detective,” I said huskily. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out in time.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Interesting. I don’t believe I mentioned that I’m a detective.”

“Perhaps Mrs Hudson told me.”

He smiled. “But she didn’t, did she? You came here looking for me. You didn’t know that I was looking for a flatmate. Only two people knew that — I had mentioned it to Mrs Hudson just yesterday morning. When I went to the lab, before we met, I ran into Mike Stamford and told him. Nobody else knew. No sign, no ad. You were coming to consult me, not to look at a flat. Who gave you my name?”

“Perhaps your reputation recommended you to me.”

“But you knew to come to this address, even though I hadn’t signed a lease.”

I had no answer for this. My silence did not seem to perplex him, however. He looked intrigued. “Have you been following this case — these serial suicides?”

I vaguely remembered Holmes mentioning it in 1881. “I’ve heard about it.”

We heard a door slam downstairs and feet running up to the flat. A man with greying hair opened the door. “We’ve got another.”

“Where?” Holmes asked.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself at a crime scene. I had been at a couple before, back in 1881, and knew Holmes’ methods. _He’s with me_ was the only introduction I was given to Mr Lestrade (the greying cop, as I later learned) or his team, a woman who was introduced as Donovan, and a man whose name I caught when Holmes said, “Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street.”

Holmes minutely examined the body and the entire room, made his deductions, amazed everyone — and took off, leaving me behind.

 _My Sherlock wouldn’t have done that_ , I thought. No, this _was_ my Sherlock, just two months before he’d landed in Bedlam. 

I had no choice but to walk back to Baker Street. As I left the building, I tipped my non-existent hat to Sergeant Donovan, the lady policeman.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Who, Sherlock Holmes?” I asked.

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”

“Well,” I said. “Nice meeting you.” I started to tip my hat again, but stopped myself before my hand went up. I turned, looking towards the main road.

“You’re not his friend.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

“I’m John Watson.”

“Yeah, I heard that. A bit of advice: stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why?”

“He’s a psychopath. He hangs out at crime scenes because he gets off on it.”

“Gets… off?”

“You’re a doctor. You should see the signs as clear as day. Psycho.”

“Dear lady, I know psychopaths. I used to work in Bedlam. Sherlock Holmes is not one of them.”

She laughed. “Be careful, Dr Watson.”

Lestrade called her from within.

“Coming!” she said.

I began to walk.

 

I had no money for a cab, so it looked like I’d be walking for at least an hour. I’d eaten what Mrs Hudson had provided for breakfast, but still felt a lingering exhaustion, perhaps the aftermath of traveling a hundred and twenty-eight years into the future.

But I was used to walking, and so I walked, listening to the sounds of this future world. Music coming out of a cafe, a few conversations (but most people walked alone), a ringing (telephone? Yes, red booth, glass, a sign: _TELEPHONE_ ), automobile sounds (horn, tires on the pavement, engines revving), a different kind of music from another cafe, another telephone ringing, automobile horns, another telephone ringing…

A black automobile was following me, I perceived. It was obviously not a cab (no identifying sign), and yet it continued to shadow me down the street. A window slid down and a man’s voice called to me. “Get in the car, Dr Watson.”

I supposed that I was being kidnapped, but was almost too tired to care. I had my gun in my pocket, though it probably wouldn’t do much good in a confrontation. Holmes had referred to my revolver as an _antique._ The man in the car probably had a ray gun or some such futuristic weapon.

“If you do not get in the car, Dr Watson, I will be forced to threaten you.”

I have never been a man to back away from danger. Ultimately, I could not escape on foot. I got into the car.

The man was tall and had a sort of rabbity face. He wore an unpleasant expression, as if something smelled objectionable. As I ducked into the car, I sniffed my shirt. It would last another day, I decided.

The man studied me with an unpleasant frown. “Why don’t you tell me who you really are, _Doctor Watson_?”

“John Hamish Watson, MD,” I said.

“For a man who’s just been forced into the car of a stranger, you don’t seem very afraid.” He looked at me curiously.

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

“What is your connection with Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

I frowned at him. “I beg your pardon, but have we been introduced? It’s rather rude of you to kidnap me and then expect me to answer questions, the answers to which, as far as I can tell, are none of your business. In light of your abuse of cordiality, and apologising for my own lack thereof, I feel justified in asking, _Who are you, sir?_ ”

“An interested party.” His smile was oily, insincere.

“Interested? I’m guessing you’re not a friend of his or you would have introduced yourself as such.”

“You’ve met him. How many _friends_ do you think he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what might that be?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

This made some sense, in an odd way. The man was acting like an arch-villain in a cheap melodrama. All he needed was a cape and a handlebar moustache. It occurred to me that he might be Moriarty, or someone who worked for him. I decided to pretend ignorance. “I see. Clearly, you are above all that. Thank God.”

“Do you plan to continue your association with him?”

“I do not feel it incumbent on me to continue this conversation. If you will just drop me off here, I’ll say _Good day, sir._ ”

“You are not a man who trusts many people, Dr Watson. Why have you decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?”

He laughed. “Where can I drop you? Baker Street?”

 

By that evening, I’d killed a man for Sherlock Holmes.

Before that happened Holmes had found the dead lady’s case, we had run over the rooftops and down the alleys of London, trailing a cab, my leg stopped hurting, Lestrade had invaded our flat to conduct a _drugs bust (why do drugs need to be busted?)_ , and Holmes had again disappeared. Not wishing to be abandoned for a second time, and rather nervous about him putting himself into danger, I listened as he spoke to the cabby who came for him, saw him leave in the cab, and followed immediately in another cab, having taken the precaution of lifting some spare cash out of his desk. I knew what kind of trouble this likely was. My revolver was tucked into the back of my trousers.

It was the cabby, the one responsible for the supposed suicides. Holmes had insisted that they were murders, but hadn’t yet pieced together how he convinced them to take the poison pills. Evidently, his curiosity was greater than his fondness for living.

My cab dropped me at a building that was part of a university. I gave the driver what I supposed, from his shocked look, was an exorbitant tip, and went inside to look for Holmes. Fearing I did not have much time, I ran up and down the hallways of that building, calling his name.

When I spotted him, I was in a parallel building, looking across a courtyard into an identical classroom, through two sets of windows. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but saw Holmes holding a pill. _The poison pill._ I raised my revolver, aimed it at the cabby, and pulled the trigger.

 

“Chinese restaurant near Baker Street,” Holmes said as we left the scene.

“Chinese?”

“I assume you’re hungry. My treat.”

I processed this. “Thank you.”

“You’ll be needing more clothes,” he said.

“My suitcase was lost,” I lied. “Doesn’t look like it will turn up anytime soon.”

“Then we’ll go shopping tomorrow.” He looked me up and down. “You’ll need pants and some vests, of course, and socks. Another jumper or two, perhaps, if you like that look. Jeans, shirts, a proper coat—”

“I can make do with much less,” I said, mortified by his generosity. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Yes, just as soon as you pawn your watch. The gun might fetch more, though.”

“This is a dangerous world, Holmes,” I commented. I’d been here less than two days and already had to fire my revolver.

“You don’t have a permit. Might be awkward to explain — if you’re going to use it again. As an antique, however, it is valuable. I can get you another gun, if you’d like. Maybe a Browning—”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I am not a man to run up debts I cannot pay.”

“You’ve already paid me a good deal more than I’m about to spend on you.”

“How do you mean?”

“You killed a man in order to save me. I consider my life worth much more than a Chinese dinner, a few clothes, and a new gun.”

As we crossed the police barrier, we were met by the very man who had kidnapped me earlier.

“This is the gentleman who I told you about,” I whispered, my indignation rising once more. “He questioned me about you.”

The rabbity man smirked. “So, Sherlock. Another case solved. Very public-spirited of you.”

Holmes did not look pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m concerned about you. And you know it upsets Mummy to think of you recklessly running around after murderers.” He smiled at me. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new flatmate, little brother?”

 _Mummy? Little brother?_ The light went on. _I have an older brother,_ he’d said. We d _on’t get along._

Holmes rolled his eyes, annoyed, and turned to me. “Surely you’ve figured out by now that this is my brother.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man said, extending his hand.

“John Watson,” I returned. “And you’re... not an arch-villain or a criminal mastermind.”

“Merely a minor government functionary.”

“Minor?” Holmes snorted. “Mycroft _is_ the British government.”

Mycroft Holmes sighed. “Well, brother, I must be off. Duty awaits.”

“Don’t start any wars. Ties up the traffic, you know.” Holmes was already walking away.

I lingered. The elder Holmes was looking at me again, studying me with curiosity. Then he straightened his back and gave me a stiff bow. “Au revoir, Doctor.”


	10. However Improbable

February 2010

He was the same Sherlock Holmes I had known — coming and going at all hours, pacing and talking aloud, sitting still and silent for hours. I was used to this. It gave me an odd sense of comfort.

My acceptance puzzled him. He watched me as I made him tea without asking, put jam on his toast, and ignored the body parts in the icebox.

“You’re assuming I want toast for breakfast,” he observed.

_You only ever eat toast for breakfast,_ I thought. _When you eat breakfast at all._ “What would you prefer?” I asked. “Eggs?”

“Toast is fine.” He continued to watch me. “Why do you feel the need to take care of me?”

“Am I taking care of you?”

“You’ve only lived with me for a couple days, and you already know what kind of jam I like. You put food in front of me and tell me to eat. You always have a cup of tea ready before I even ask. You hang up my coat for me. You covered me with a blanket last night when I fell asleep on the sofa.”

“Just trying to be considerate,” I said. “That’s what — flatmates do.”

“Are you gay, John?” he asked me suddenly.

I considered this for a moment before answering. “Normally I am reasonably pleasant to be around, or so I’ve been told. Not gay, perhaps, or jolly, but generally in a good humour. Lately, however, I’ve been a bit melancholy. I apologise if I seem moody. I will endeavour to be more cheerful.” I tried to put on an agreeable smile.

He stared at me, his forehead crinkling as if I had just presented him with a conundrum.

 

After several days of cohabitation, he sent me shopping: milk, tea, biscuits, and something called _nicotine patches_ , which might be obtainable from the chemist. I’d had some trouble sleeping because of the pain in my left shoulder and thought I might pick up something for that at the same time.

He handed me a plastic card, which perplexed me. The look on my face prompted an explanation.

“It’s a chip and pin card,” he said. “Use it at the cashier to pay. The clerk will show you where to insert it. My PIN is 1881.”

“Pin?”

“Personal Identification Number. You’ll see. The machine will ask.”

“1881?”

He shrugged. “I like palindromes. Forwards and backwards. And it’s also a number that can be read—”

“Upside down the same as right-side up,” I finished.

“Alexander Fleming was born that year,” he added.

I nodded. “Discoverer of penicillin.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” he said.

“Is there anything else you need while I’m at the store?” I asked.

“Maybe a pack of cigarettes,” he said. “The nicotine patches don’t always work.”

I shook my head. “My dear man, those things cause cancer. And they’re highly addictive. I shall not contribute to your demise.” I myself desperately wanted a cigarette, a cigar, or a pipe full of tobacco, but was determined to give it up. I had already survived a leap of over a hundred years. I would not tempt fate by smoking. Besides which, I had noted that cigarettes were outrageously expensive in 2010 — over six pounds a pack! Unemployed as I was, I could not afford a tobacco habit.

“Fine, just the patches, then.”

 

When I returned, I could hear his brother’s voice. I walked up the stairs carefully, avoiding the one that squeaked, trying to catch what they were saying. The two of them are more perceptive than anyone I’ve known, and I felt their scrutiny whenever in their presence.

“…whatever remains, however improbable,” Mycroft was saying.

“Yes, I know. But there’s nothing remaining. Only the impossible.”

I reached the landing. The door was open.

“Hush,” Mycroft said softly. His back was to me.

I saw Sherlock look up from his chair at me, whatever expression he’d had a second ago now wiped clean. Encouraging smile. “John. No troubles, I hope?”

“The pharmacist would not give me opium tincture,” I said.

The brothers exchanged looks.

“For pain,” I added. “He suggested paracetamol, though, which I purchased. And nicotine patches, as you requested.”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said, smiling. “Thank you.”

I put the items away in the kitchen.

 

Holmes sometimes brought me to crime scenes. I am not sure how useful I was to his deductive process, but he seemed to like having me around. This made me unreasonably happy. 

Lestrade’s team seemed less happy that I was there.

“What medical school did you get your degree from?” Anderson asked me. I had gathered that he was also an MD.

“University of Edinburgh and Saint Bartholomew’s,” I replied. I have always been proud to have studied at those institutions. “I’m sure you’ve heard of them. I did my surgical training at Netley.”

“Netley?”

“Royal Victoria Hospital. Southampton.”

“I’ve never heard of it. What year was that?”

Holmes motioned for me to come look at something. “Why don’t you stop talking, Anderson? You lower the intelligence of the entire street.”

I studied the body, noting the flushed skin. “Carbonic acid poisoning,” I told him. “See the distinctive rash?”

He nodded. “He’s been diving recently. And then he got on an airplane. Foolish.”

Lestrade looked puzzled.

Sherlock sighed. “Did you not notice the wetsuit? The boarding pass? Are Doctor Watson and I the only ones here with eyes?”

 

Later, as I waited for Sherlock to finish discussing the case with Lestrade, Donovan began to quiz me. “You’re from Scotland,” she said.

“I was born there,” I replied, beginning to feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Any family?” She gave me a sceptical look, as if I might be making up a fake pedigree. Though why anyone would fake a Scottish pedigree, I do not know.

“No. All deceased.”

“You were in the army.”

“Yes. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I attained the rank of captain.”

“Injured, invalided home?”

“I took a Jezail bullet to my left shoulder. It still troubles me.”

“You walk with a limp.”

“Yes. I was unfortunate enough to be shot twice.”

“How’d you meet Sherlock?”

“He was looking for a flatmate. I applied.” Tired of the scrutiny, I excused myself and walked towards where Holmes was standing, talking to Lestrade.

I heard Lestrade say, “It _is_ my business. I can’t have people on my crime scenes without any ID.”

“Look,” said Holmes. “I’ll get Mycroft to send you something. He was abducted into a cult when he was an infant, just recently escaped… working on some documentation for that, but it’s difficult… please, say nothing about this…”

 

I began to beg off going with Holmes on investigations. Though he appreciated my presence, it seemed to provoke too many questions. And there was the possibility that my involvement would affect future events. I needed Holmes to leave this century on April 1 if we were to meet. If we never met in 1881, I was not sure what would happen to me in 2010.

Instead, I watched the _telly_ , trying to learn about the world I now lived in.

So many screens. Small screens that fit in one’s hand, larger screens that are called tablets and notebooks, and the telly, which is a very large screen. It is difficult to explain the breadth of information available on the telly. It is almost as if what is projected there is the real world, and the rest of what goes on is so boring to people that they bring their screens with them so they can immerse themselves in that other world.

“Are you reading the internets?” I asked Holmes one evening. I felt proud that I had finally figured out what people were doing with their computing devices. The internets, I had learned, are vast libraries of textual and visual information. I do not know where they are kept, but one needs only a device with a screen to look things up.

He looked at me with fond exasperation. “Internet, John. Singular.”

I nodded and turned back to watch people making cakes on the telly. _Cupcakes,_ I thought. _What a grand idea._

 

He played the violin for me that evening. I closed my eyes, trying to remember December 1881, when we had moved into the flat. I thought of how kind he had been to me when I most feared rejection. I imagined the two of us sitting before the fire, just as we were now, each of us quietly focused on some task — reading or writing, perhaps, or talking. Though I was sitting in the same place now, with the same person, I was overtaken by a sudden melancholy that brought tears to my eyes.

Holmes played on, running through a repertoire of music that was by now familiar to me. I thought of the second-hand violin I had bought from Mr Iacomo and given to him for his birthday. I remembered the look on his face when I handed it to him, as if he hadn’t deserved any recognition for the day, let alone a present. _My love,_ he’d called me.

I thought of the inn we stayed in at Edinburgh, the bed where we lay together, our arms and legs entangled… No, it would not do to become sentimental about the past. Not when the future was rushing upon us.

I opened my eyes to find Holmes had put down his instrument and was looking at me with a keen expression. Quickly, I wiped my eyes. “Very beautiful,” I said. “I love hearing you play.”

“Moriarty,” he said.

I started.

“You’ve heard this name before.”

“It is a somewhat common name in Ireland,” I said.

“The cabby said. Before he died.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked him to tell me who was putting him up to it. He said Moriarty. Then he died.”

“What does it mean?”

“I’ve no idea.” He smiled.

I knew that smile. It meant: _I’m going to figure this out._

 

March 2010

The latest case was a string of puzzles, each delivered by a hostage strapped with bombs. Holmes was on fire to solve each one, as each came with a deadline. One hostage began to describe her abductor and the bomb was detonated, killing her and several other people. Even this did not deter Holmes. I was a bit shocked at his ability to move past death and destruction and stay focused on the next puzzle.

“But people are dying!” I said.

“Will caring about them help me save them?”

I had to admit that it would not.

“Don't make people into heroes, John,” he said. “Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.”

_You are my hero, Sherlock. You will never convince me otherwise._

 

As April the first approached, I admitted the possibility that this was the only Sherlock I would ever know. Perhaps it was fitting that the Sherlock I knew so well had begun his journey on the day when traditionally fools are sent on a pointless errand.

This Sherlock had questions, I could see. He had observed and drawn conclusions, but for some reason he did not ask me. I did not volunteer anything.

I thought about our time experiment with the mouse. Where had my Sherlock gone? Could he be lost in time? Was he dead? Clearly, he had not come through with me because he was already here, in 2010. He could not come from 1882 until he’d left 2010. What would happen on that day? Would the two Sherlocks merge? Would he suddenly acquire all the memories of 1881 and 1882? Would he remember these weeks with me as his flatmate in 2010? And what if he didn’t return?

Then, again: _What could he have possibly told me in 1881 that would have made me believe him?_ His story of materialising in St George’s Fields was incredible enough. It had taken me days to begin believing that.

_Why had I believed him?_ Because I had written a time travel story and was half ready to accept such things? Because he told me my life would be happy at a point when all happiness had left me? Because I was already falling in love with him?

Or had I believed him because some part of me remembered 2010 — all of this that we were now living?

I am the biggest fool of all fools. I love a man who does not yet know me.

My agitation must have been obvious to him, but still he did not speak. And I had no answers.

 

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

It was late on the evening of March 31. I had gone up to bed early, but was not expecting to sleep. I could hear Holmes downstairs, moving about restlessly. I stared at the ceiling, wishing to get it over with, to wake the next morning and find him back — my Sherlock, who would know me. He would smile at me, say something to make me laugh — _Been waiting long? Sorry, I just lost track of_ _time_ _!_ We could both laugh about it then, and begin the life he had described to me…

I heard the stairs creak. He had never climbed up to my room since we moved into the flat two months ago, but now he was coming up the stairs.

Without knocking, he opened the door. “John,” he said softly.

“I’m awake,” I replied.

“I’m going out.”

“Yes, I know.”

Approaching, he lay down on the bed beside me. I budged over to make room for him. Saying nothing, he put his arms around me. I hugged him back.

There were many things I wanted to say then: _Come back to me. I love you. Please remember me…_

“I can’t go with you,” I whispered.

I felt him nod. “I know.”

Our lips met, not in passion, but in fear, and hope. After the kiss, we remained like that, our faces close in the darkness, looking into one another’s eyes. At last he sighed and sat up.

At the door he paused and looked back at me. “See you soon.”

I heard his feet going down the stairs, across the sitting room. The flat door opened and closed. Then seventeen steps down to the front door. It opened, then closed. I heard his feet on the pavement for a few seconds, then they blended in with the other street sounds.


	11. Fool's Errand

Thursday, 1 April 2010

Before dawn I dressed and went downstairs to the sitting room. Holmes’ laptop was closed, on his desk. His violin was in the case on the desk chair. He had cleared papers from his desk and returned his tea cup to the kitchen. From this I deduced that he intended to come back (else he would have boxed all his belongings and put them in the closet) but he wasn’t sure how soon (and didn’t want to inconvenience me by leaving his clutter scattered through out the flat.) His attempt to neaten up was the noise I had heard the previous night.

Sentimental fool that I am, I looked around the flat with the eyes of 1882, seeing it as if for the first time, the paint not yet chipped, the wall paper unfaded, the rugs still plush, our coats and hats hanging by the door. For a moment I felt myself drifting back to my last day there. 

But I had an errand to undertake, and I hoped it would not be a fool’s errand.

As I combed my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.Was this the man who had walked the streets of 1882 so recently? I remembered that man, but I wasn't sure I was still _that_ John Watson. That Watson had nearly lost hope after he returned, wounded, from war. When I’d met Holmes, I was at such a low point — I cannot imagine what I would have done if he had not given me a reason to live. Though I didn’t know what I could do for him now, I could not abandon him, even if I had to go back and find him and bring him home. 

Bundling myself into the jacket he’d bought for me, I wrapped a scarf around my neck — the striped one belonging to him — pulled on my boots, and headed out.

The roads were wet with a fine drizzle of rain, and as the walk would take an hour in the best weather, I hailed a cab as soon as I reached Oxford Street and gave the cabby my destination. “Imperial War Museum, Lambeth Road.”

I had not been back since the day I arrived. I felt as if a circle were closing, two ends arcing towards one another. That building, where I had once attempted to quiet the sufferings of the insane, now housed years of history that I had not lived.

Not wanting to arrive before the necessary events of last night had taken place, I had waited until morning. Holmes was no fool; he would not have set his return for midnight, otherwise he might meet himself in passing. Not to mention what would happen if Moriarty saw him return.

I walked around a bit, better dressed to handle the damp chill than on the day I arrived. It was a Thursday morning; soon I saw the commuters begin to gather at bus stops and walk down the steps to the underground trains. I was not so ignorant of what I saw now. I had acclimated to 2010.

In the crowds of commuters I searched for his face, his figure, his walk. Perhaps he had stopped for a pastry and a cup of coffee. Perhaps he had found a dry spot where he could rest for a while. The gates of the museum did not open until ten. I waited in the same bus shelter where I’d sat two months earlier. When the gates opened, I entered and walked around the grounds a bit. I did not see him.

He would not have his mobile — Moriarty had taken it, he said — so there was no way to contact him. I sat outside the museum and waited.

I heard clocks chiming the half hour.

“Come, Doctor.” A pair of expensive, highly-polished shoes stood before me. An umbrella tapped the sidewalk. I looked up. Mycroft Holmes. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

I followed him through the double doors into the main gallery. The entire building looked to have been gutted and redone, spacious and airy. I remembered the reception area from my day, the odour of carbolic soap, the cramped wooden benches and the central desk, the dim hallways branching off in different directions: men’s ward, women’s ward…

With Mycroft following my lead, I walked down a hallway in what I thought might have once led to the examination and consulting rooms. I had worked here for a year, six days a week. I remembered the worn floors and the white-washed walls. I heard the screams of the deranged, saw the faces of the imbeciles.

We stood in a room filled with World War II photographs. It was larger than I remembered; perhaps the walls had been moved. That room where we met had been so tiny, just room for a desk and a chair. The window was as I remembered, though, the daylight filtering through dirty glass. We had been here together, I felt, and I had pulled out my pocket watch and taken his pulse.

Closing my eyes, I reimagined every detail of that day. I'd been weary, discouraged, even desperate. I remembered him sitting in a chair opposite the desk, wrapped in a coarse sheet. A striking man, I thought, with a miraculous intelligence that shone through his odd ramblings. I remembered his words to me, as if he saw into my soul. He intrigued me, and he gave me hope. I think I loved him from the first.

“Much has changed, I imagine,” said Mycroft.

I nodded. “We sat here and talked.”

Mycroft smiled. “Did he deduce you?”

“Not all at once.” I smiled back at him. “He was trying hard to impress me so I would sign the release papers. Eventually he did, and I did.”

“How long did he stay here?”

“Less than a fortnight. The hospital was crowded and we needed every bed. I signed the papers.”

“And you became flatmates.”

I wasn’t sure how he could have known this. Probably just a guess based on the fact that I’d shown up at 221B looking for him. “Yes, I needed a new place to live. He found the flat on Baker Street.”

“The school is across the street.” He looked around the room. “I assume there is nothing else here to see.”

I took a final look around as we walked out. It was a chapter of my life that was most definitely closed, but never forgotten. _So much misery within these walls_ , I thought. And yet here, of all places, I had found love.

We crossed the street and entered the school. Mycroft is a person of apparently unlimited authority, for everyone he speaks with seems to bend to his quiet, dignified will. I cannot imagine what excuse he gave to the secretary in the front office, but we were allowed to see the pool. Students were in the water, doing laps, their voices echoing from the high ceiling. I tried to imagine him here last night, talking to Moriarty in the darkened room, light reflecting off the water. Painfully, I reminded myself that to have gone with him would have ruined everything.

“Why here?” Mycroft asked.

“The portal is in this area. It all looks different, so it’s hard for me to tell exactly where I left from. There was a pub at this location in 1881. The Dog and Duck. When he arrived, he passed out for a while, he said. I suppose people thought he was just a drunk. Some people walking their dog found him and brought him to the asylum.”

“I’m glad they did. And I’m very glad he met you.” He gave me a genuine smile. “Did you find the transport difficult?”

“We did a trial, accidentally,” I told him. “I was sent a few minutes into the future. It quite taxed my system. When I came here, it was less difficult. Perhaps I was more prepared.”

He frowned. “It seems to be a rather uncertain and potentially dangerous process.”

“Yes. I wish I could explain it better, but I hardly understand it myself.”

A bell rang and the children began climbing out of the pool and heading for the locker room. The room became quiet and the surface of the water stilled. I stood lost in thought until Mycroft spoke again.

“There is something else I want to show you, Doctor.”

His car was waiting at the kerb. We were alone, except for the driver.

“How did you know?” I asked. “About me, I mean.”

“I will explain once we’ve had some lunch. For now, I’ll just say that _I observed._ It was the most reasonable conclusion to draw. And I’ve been following Moriarty for some time, so I knew something of his travels. I wasn’t sure I believed it all, though, until I met you.”

I sighed. “You want to know what’s going to happen.”

“I do not expect you know any better than I can speculate. It was a dangerous thing to do, but he obviously wanted to come back. If it had been me, I think I would have stayed in 1882.”

“Really. Why?”

“Like you, I often feel myself to be a man of another era. I appreciate many aspects of your century, Doctor. You may look at this London and see an amazing, clean, technologically advanced world. But all the dirt is still here, underneath. The bones of the poor and infirm, the hovels where they lived, still lie beneath these streets. Your era, however, was where people first began to think these were problems worth addressing. The London Mr Dickens wrote about was just beginning to wake to the fact that poor people are more than an inconvenience. Your age solved problems. The last cholera epidemic led to the creation of the water system that still serves us. People in your time still made a living as _night soil men_ , mucking out the toilets of homes. Laws were made requiring more sanitary living conditions. Physicians were still not convinced that washing hands was necessary; many thought that contagion was carried through the air, a miasma. Antibiotics, automobiles, aeroplanes — all these things came from discoveries made in the second half of the nineteenth century. It was an era of rapid change and almost unimaginable reform. I would love to have been part of that.”

“You have studied your history, Mr Holmes. But there was also a great oppression of many people, including sexual inverts, as we were characterised. Inverts such as myself were forced to hide who we were and love one another in secret.”

“True. There was a punitive morality at that time which we have begun to cast off. You need not fear being true to your nature in 2010. I’m not saying prejudice is entirely gone, just that more people recognise it as a right to love whom you wish to love.”

We pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club. The driver opened the door for us. Mycroft led me inside.

I had not been here before. The club interior had changed little since its early days, I supposed. It was all dark polished wood, sculpted mouldings, and oriental rugs. The chair were leather, deep and capacious. A few men smoked or drank, and many read periodicals. There was no conversation. It could have been 1881.

“We will be in the Stranger’s Room,” he told the concierge.

As we settled into chairs, he spoke. “There are many men in London, you know, who have no wish for the company of their fellows — some from a natural reserve, some from misanthropy. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the this club was started — even before your time, Doctor. It still contains the most unsociable and unclubbable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Only here, in the Stranger's Room, is any talking allowed. Let me order us some lunch, Doctor, and then we can talk, if you are so inclined.”

He ordered food and drink for us. As I am a man unaccustomed to fine things, I could not have identified the wine or discussed the pairing of the various elements of the meal, but I knew that I was dining like a respectable gentleman. I ate one of the finest beefsteaks I have ever tasted.

“It’s Kobe,” he said. “Imported from Japan.”

“I have seen the photographs of Felice Beato,” I said. “It fascinates me to see how people so far away from us live, how different they are, and yet how similar. In your century, however, it seems to me that people step across continents and trade with one another like neighbours.”

He smiled. “We have the advantage of air travel. I hope that one day you will fly in an airplane, Doctor. I would like to be there to see your face as you look down on the surface of the earth for the first time. From six miles up, it all looks like dirt, water, and bits of greenery, but the vastness of it is overwhelming. I wish I had not been born with this perspective. I wish I could see all this through your eyes.”

During the meal, we conversed like friends. He seemed quite knowledgable about the arts. He asked what type of music I liked and did not sneer when I said I enjoyed Gilbert and Sullivan. He asked me if I had been to see the Picasso Exhibit at the Tate (I had not) and tried to explain to me what cubism was. He inquired into my literary tastes (penny dreadfuls), and told me his favourite books from my era ( _Vanity Fair, The Picture of Dorian Gray_ ).

When dessert and coffee had been served, he asked one of the servers to send someone to his room for a package. When it arrived, a craft envelope with a clasp on it, labeled WATSON, he smiled at me.

“I hope to surprise you now, Doctor,” he said, reaching into the envelope. He handed me a book. It was hardbound, with a paper slipcover showing a picture of a man with a moustache, wearing a bowler, his arms extended towards a double helix on one hand and a clock-like device on the other.

_On the Cusp of Forever: the Stories of John H Watson._

“Read the jacket,” he said as I gawked.

_The recently discovered works of John H Watson, nineteenth century physician and author, provide us with a unique view of early science-fiction. He is one of the first authors, even before H.G. Wells, to address the notion of time travel. Other stories deal with epidemiology, gender identity, and eugenics. Ahead of his time, Watson’s works were preserved in manuscript form until 1918, when they were discovered in an old desk sold at auction. Several stories dealing with homosexual love were not published until 1969 due to social disapproval. They are now presented here, in their original form, for a reading audience that will appreciate his prescience about gender and scientific issues. His stories rival Wells and Verne for originality._

Inside the book I found a short biography of myself, along with an ancient photo of me at university, wearing my bowler and looking quite the dapper young man.

_John H Watson was born in Glasgow, June 21, 1852. He attended the University of Edinburgh and did surgical training at Netley Hospital. Having served as an army surgeon during the Second Anglo-Afghan War, he was sent home wounded and practiced medicine at the Bedlam Hospital, London. It is thought that most of his manuscripts were written during this time period. His death date is unknown. In early 1882, before his thirtieth birthday, he disappeared, never to be seen again. This mystery has never been solved and continues to draw speculation from critics and fans._

“It was published seven years ago,” Mycroft said.

“How did you find this? You must have been looking.”

“I found you when I was at university, Doctor.” He smiled at my surprise. “I was taking a literature class, required, of course, but with options. I selected Victorian literature. The professor had us read several of the classics, but also included stories by lesser known authors, particularly early gay literature and science fiction. I was introduced to your stories in that class, and the mystery of your disappearance. My professor at that time, Edwin Lowell, is the editor of this collection of forgotten tales.”

“Did Sherlock know? Had he already heard of me?”

“My brother has never been interested in literature. He read the classics in school, of course, but never anything off the beaten path. I have never mentioned your work to him.”

I nodded. All my stories — the ones I’d lost when they were set out on the kerb — had been found. Whoever picked up the desk must have tossed them out, I’d assumed, but somehow, miraculously, they had been preserved. Just as Holmes had predicted, they had found an audience in the future. I hoped that soon I would be able to show him.

Mycroft leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “Doctor, I do not understand how time travel works. I know my brother, however, and I have come to know a bit about you. I believe that he will do anything in his power to return here. Until he does, do not trouble yourself about income or rent. I would, in any case, maintain the flat for my brother’s eventual return, so it is no trouble to keep you there.” He slid a small box across the table towards me. “You need your own mobile. I’ve taken the liberty of programming a few numbers, including my own private line. Ring me if ever you need me, or if you just want to talk. Do you know how it works?”

I nodded. “I have observed Sherlock using his. And there’s always You Tube.”

He laughed. “You’re a fast learner, Doctor. And you are now living in a fast world. Your own era was marked by rapid change, but you will be amazed to see how quickly the present era is evolving. Please, do not hesitate to get in touch if you need anything. Your questions are not unwelcome.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re very generous. I hope that I can repay you one day.”

He smiled. “Write a story for me,” he said. “A romance. That will be your repayment. Something with vampires, perhaps. Gay vampires.”

“A gay vampire romance?”

“Pure fluff. Self-indulgent drivel. The caramel-chocolate-truffle ice cream of literature.” He gave me a sly grin. “My secret pleasure.”

I smiled. “I will do it for you. Might have to go with a pen name, however.”

“No worries.” He stood and shook my hand. “Just keep this between us, Doctor. And you need not worry about your secret: our conversations will always be completely confidential.”

He sent me home in his car. I ascended the seventeen steps half wearily and half expectantly. When I saw that the flat was dark and empty, nothing disturbed, I tried to reason away my disappointment.


	12. Infatuation

April 2010 / John H Watson

Hope, in the absence of evidence, is a difficult emotion to sustain. Without anything to feed hope, it becomes desperation. Doctors give statistics to buoy their patient’s hopes. Stock brokers point to earnings trends. Lawyers have a track record of cases won. Evidence nourishes hope.

I felt a bit desperate. I had nothing besides my own existence to prove that the device worked. And sometimes I even doubted that. At times, I imagined myself in my own Bedlam, strapped to a bed or bound in a straitjacket, babbling nonsense to anyone who would listen. What I thought my senses perceived might be an illusion. Everything that I had known of reality had changed. Could I perhaps be dreaming this future world, as I had done when I wrote my stories?

_You see, but do not observe,_ Holmes would say. _The evidence is there._

No, I decided. I was not a madman; nor was I dreaming. The future worlds I had imagined were different. There were flying carriages in those tales, and cities in the clouds, and people who had learned to use telepathy so speech was no longer necessary. I could observe none of those things where I now found myself. If 2010 were a figment of my mind, it would look entirely different.

I slept in Sherlock’s bed that night, breathing in his scent and praying for his return. How long it had been since I had prayed for anything, I cannot say. I do not know if God cares for me, but my belief in His existence ought to count for something, I thought.

 

I continued to learn what I could through watching the telly. After a couple weeks, I gained the courage to lift the lid of Sherlock’s laptop. There I discovered a sticky note: _Hamish1881_. Obviously, this should mean something to me. Hamish is my middle name (though I am not sure how he could have known that), and the number was the PIN he had given me. It was not until I began to try various buttons that I realised a password was required, and at once I knew what the note had meant.

A few weeks earlier, when curiosity got the better of me and Holmes was more patient than usual, I’d asked about the device he’d called his _laptop._ I’d seen a couple _desktop_ computers at that point, but didn’t make the connection that they were basically the same thing. Everything about computers was alien to me, and not knowing what everyone else accepted as normal made me stand out, I’m afraid.

When I’d conceived the future world of my story, I had not imagined that books could ever be replaced. A book was something so basic, so comforting. With a book in my hand, I felt right with the world. I grew up poor, but began to buy books as soon as I had money to do so. My first was just a penny dreadful, some romantic tale of a young boy heroically pulling himself out of misfortune by virtue of his honesty and bravery. In my romantic imagination, I saw myself as such a boy. And thus began my love affair with the printed word. I love books — the way they smell, the weight of a volume in my hand, their ability to make time fly. I haunted libraries, wishing that I might one day live surrounded by books.

Holmes had a lot of books, some of them antique. I had spent my first days in the flat reading many of them. But no one else seemed to be reading books in 2010. School children carried them, and occasionally I’d see an older woman reading a paperback at a bus stop. Even newspapers were scarce. I did not mention any of my observations to Holmes, not wanting him to deduce any more about me, but he had already noticed. That was when he invited me to sit on the sofa beside him and showed me his laptop.

“Most people read on their phones or laptops,” he said.

At the bottom of the screen was a row of small pictures. When I asked, Holmes had explained that these opened different items. One was a calendar, another looked like a notepad. He clicked rapidly, explaining as he did, but my mind was several steps behind at every stage, still trying to grasp the idea that words could be flying all around us, courtesy of _wifi._ Books had fled their covers and now hovered like ghosts in the air. They surrounded me. With a device, I could carry a library in my hands.

Once I’d typed in the password (three tries before I figured out how to capitalise the H), I tried to remember what all the pictures meant. I clicked on several, as I’d seen him do, and saw what appeared. After trying a few others, I finally recognised a compass and clicked on it: _Google,_ it said. A nonsense word, but also an index to that infinite library in the air _._ All one had to do, I discovered, was type a word, or several words, or even a question, and one would be afforded with opportunities to explore.

And it wasn’t just words; there were pictures, both still and moving, and colour, and sound, and music. My amazement was so great that I spent an entire day just looking at information about various surgeries. It was like having a window into an operating theatre, seeing doctors performing actual surgeries on patients. And the things they could do in 2010! I saw people receive new joints, even new hearts, kidneys, and other organs. I saw brain surgery performed. It was miraculous.

I began to see why people in this age are so in love with technology.

I spent another day reading history, learning of two world wars that had been fought in Europe and several wars since then, in the Middle East. Still we fought in Afghanistan, I saw, where I had nearly lost my life so many years ago. I watched the Russian Empire and Imperial China fall, Karl Marx’s ideology adopted, and rejected. I saw leaders assassinated, revolutions upend governments and cultures. I recognised terrible oppression, denied opportunities, and poverty, (which I thought should have been eliminated by now), still stunting billions. And I read about people liberated, the abolition of slavery, the suffrage of women.

After many hours of study, my eyes ached and I retired to bed.

 

In the morning, Mr Lestrade paid a visit to the flat, looking for Holmes.

“What’s he up to? Haven’t seen him in a couple days,” he said, glancing around the sitting room as if I might be hiding him under a cushion. He squinted at me. “You growing a moustache?”

“I am,” I said, smoothing the hairs that had begun to fill in on my upper lip. “Mr Holmes is away.”

“That so?” He studied me for a moment as if he wanted to ask something.

I beat him to the punch. “What do you know about Moriarty?”

_Surprised_ , I thought. He simply stared at me, slack-jawed, for a long moment. Then he said, “Sit down, Doctor. We need to talk.”

I took Holmes’ chair and he sat in mine. I waited for him to begin.

“I understand now,” he said. “Sherlock fed me that silly story about you being abducted by cultists. I knew that couldn’t be true, but it was odd that he couldn’t provide any documentation for you. I’d done a complete background check on you — lots of John Watsons, even John H Watsons. But none of them fit. Then it clicked.”

“What clicked, Mr Lestrade?”

“He mentioned his brother. I’ve only met the man once, a government somebody who toils in a dull office, he said. But that isn’t the truth. Not any more than the bit about you living in a bomb shelter for your whole life and never knowing about the modern world.”

“A bomb shelter, he said?”

Lestrade chuckled. “ _Sounds more like the plot for a miniseries on the telly_ , I told him. But I’d noticed all the things about you that are weird. The way you use words… I don’t know. Just little things that barely register, but when you think about it…” He sighed. “Like _by Jove_ — who says that these days? Or _Gadzooks?_ ”

“I read a lot in the bomb shelter,” I offered. “Not much else to do.”

He gave me a narrow look. “Have your fun, Doctor, but I’m on to you.”

“What exactly are you _on to_?” I asked.

“You’re MI6.”

I didn’t know what this meant, but decided I should play along. “What makes you think so?” I whispered conspiratorially.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “The man’s up to his neck in secret intelligence. A case gets whisked off my desk, and I know where it’s gone. Like this Moriarty thing.”

“Moriarty’s been whisked off your desk?”

He nodded. “And Sherlock’s got something to do with it as well. So, you tell me — where’s our consulting detective disappeared to?”

“I’m not a liberty to say.”

“That’s what I thought.” He stood. “Well, I’m sure NSY will be called in when they need us. Clean up the mess, make it all look above board. Until then, good luck to you, Doctor.”

I stood as well. “Mr Lestrade, there are some things I may not talk about, but I do value your opinion. These puzzles that Holmes was given to solve, what was their purpose? What is Moriarty after?”

He silently stared at the floor for a moment, then nodded and looked me in the eye. “Just between you and me, I think he’s after Sherlock Holmes. Not just because of him interfering in his crime syndicate, whatever that may turn out to be. I think he’s got a crush on Sherlock, intellectually I mean, like he’s the only worthy rival and the rest of us aren’t worth bothering about. It’s personal. That’s what I think. But don’t you quote me on that, Doctor.”

I promised I wouldn’t and saw him to the door. “Any time you feel like sharing your opinion, Mr Lestrade, I hope you’ll feel comfortable dropping by for a cup of tea. Or something stronger.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

I looked up _crush_ on the Google. _Infatuation,_ it said. _Obsession, love, passion, passing fancy._ I did not like the sound of that. No one was going to _crush_ my Sherlock.

 

I went to the Diogenes Club and asked if Mr Mycroft Holmes was available. The concierge sent a boy with a note. In a moment, he returned with a reply. _Would I be willing to wait for a few minutes?_ I said I would and took a seat.

I felt at home in the Club, mostly because the eclectic fussiness of the decor let me imagine myself in 1881. This place was solidly masculine, in spite of the Oriental touches and Turkish rugs. There were few places I’d found since arriving where men and women had separate society. Even the manner of dress had merged the two sexes, with both men and women wearing jeans and shirts with written messages: _Oh, Snap! Dr Who. I’m with Stupid. Vancouver 2010_. To always find women around was something new for me. I am not one of those men who denigrate women or think them a lesser type of human, but the modern insistence that there are no differences between a man’s mind and a woman’s is just codswallop. A woman may equal me in intelligence, bravery, and ambition, but we do not see the world in the same way.

Whatever the improvements of 2010, my home was not here. Like an immigrant, I might learn to speak the language, wear the clothing, and smile at the jokes, but when I dreamed, it would always be of 1882.

Mycroft came out to greet me and brought me back to an office he maintained at the club, where we could talk freely.

“You are investigating Moriarty,” I said. “You have learned what he is attempting to do.”

He gave me his all-purpose smile. “I am able to neither confirm that nor deny what you suggest.”

“I see.” I know my manners. Mycroft Holmes is not a man to disrespect. He observes, as his brother does, and is able to draw conclusions that are opaque to a person like me. I was too tired and miserable to beat around the bush, though, and decided that I could best show my deference by speaking plainly. “Why do you think he sent your brother to 1881?”

“I had hoped you would tell me,” he responded. “What did Sherlock do while he was there?”

“He took cases, as he does now, enough to pay our rent.” I smiled fondly, remembering how strapped we had been, how we tried to stretch every coin as far as it would go, how long it took him to earn enough to buy my watch out of hock. “Our income was quite limited. We did not drink champagne every night and smash our crystal glasses in the fireplace. We walked about the city very often. He loved looking through bookseller’s stalls but rarely purchased books. We visited art galleries, as that entertainment is quite free. He was interested in everything he saw. After our income stabilised, he began to look into Moriarty. Our investigation led us to Edinburgh, where we found his papers.”

“Did he take the papers?”

“No, he committed them to memory.” I smiled. “And I stole a time machine.”

He gave me a sharp look. “You are quite the pair. There is more to you than meets the eye, Doctor. Now, tell me why you think my brother agreed to be sent to 1881. I know you have a theory.”

“At first, he gave me to believe that he came for me. A romantic notion which I had concocted…” I felt my cheeks grow hot. “This was rubbish, of course.”

Mycroft smiled. “My brother feels a great deal for you. I might even go so far as to say he loves you.”

My throat closed and I could not speak for several minutes. Mycroft refilled my cup with tea and sipped his own.

“Forgive me,” I said, dabbing my eyes with the handkerchief he had provided. “I had become accustomed to him, and even though he did not remember the time we spent together, it was a comfort to have him around. I have forgotten how to be alone.”

He waved his hand. “No apology necessary. Did my brother ever tell you why he decided to trust Moriarty and agreed to be sent back?”

“He didn’t trust him, but he was curious and saw no harm in playing along, thinking he might get Moriarty to reveal more of his plan. Moriarty said he was from the future and that he had plotted out points in history where he might alter the course of events to his benefit. He promised your brother that they could become the richest, most powerful men in history. As I said, Sherlock agreed to a test, out of curiosity. He didn’t care rubbish about money and power. Moriarty promised to send him to 1960, but instead, he found himself in 1881.”

“Do you think it was an accident?”

I shook my head slowly. “Moriarty does not seem like a man who makes mistakes. And if he just wanted Sherlock to stop interfering, you would think he’d simply kill him.”

“He must have had a specific reason not to.”

“Mr Lestrade thinks that he sees Sherlock as his only worthy rival. He said it was personal. In that case, killing Sherlock would deprive him of the pleasure of trying to outwit him.”

Mycroft templed his fingers in front of his mouth for a moment. “Perhaps.”

Realising that I had already taken enough of his time, I made to leave. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I appreciate having someone to discuss these things with. The flat is very quiet, and it is easy for me to begin jumping to unfounded conclusions when I sit by myself and try to figure this out.”

“Any time, Doctor. I enjoy our conversations. I am putting extra surveillance on Baker Street, just so you are aware. You will not see anyone, but my people are there.”

“Why do you think it necessary?”

He shrugged. “I suspect that Dr Moriarty may be planning to pay you a visit.”


	13. Romantic Notions

May 2010 / John H Watson

My lungs, imperfectly healed from the pneumonia, caught another round of contagion at the beginning of May. I felt feverish and ached for several days, then began to cough once again, the same bone-rattling hacks that had weakened me before Christmas.

I had been taking a walk every morning, and again in the evening, as it was light for so long now, but had to give it up once I knew I was ill. I tried to write, but found I could barely concentrate. Instead, I left the telly on and lay under a blanket on the sofa, too weak to do anything other than sleep and take occasional trips to the loo.

Mrs Hudson, God bless her, brought me tea and tried to tempt me with easily-digestible food. She even went to the chemist and brought home a syrup to relieve my cough. In spite of her care, however, after a few days I was no better.

“You need to visit the clinic,” she said. “They’ll fix you up with some Amoxil.”

“What is that?”

“Antibiotic,” she said. “I thought you were a doctor.”

I coughed some more. “Where is the clinic?” I wheezed.

“There’s one around the corner, on Marylebone.”

“How much will it cost?” I thought about the cash that Holmes had left in his desk. I hated to ask Mycroft for a loan, but I had no way to make a living yet.

She gave me a puzzled frown. “You must be delirious. Just show them your card.”

I had no card. No identification of any kind.

Someone was knocking at the door downstairs, and Mrs Hudson excused herself to answer it.

My mobile rang. _Mycroft Holmes._

“Ah, Doctor. Don’t speak—”

“Wha—” I launched into another coughing jag. “Sorry,” I gasped.

“I said, _don’t speak_. Clearly you are ill. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to the clinic. Anthea will have an NIH card for you.”

I entered the clinic alone, Anthea having decided that I didn’t need a minder. The waiting room was full of coughing, hacking, miserable people. I went to the desk labeled _Reception._ After explaining to the woman why I was there, I handed her my card and in a few minutes I was shown into an examination room.

A nurse came in, a pretty blonde with blue eyes. She was dressed like all the clinic workers in something that looked like pyjamas. From watching the telly, I knew that these were called _scrubs._ She wore a name tag that said _Mary._

I thought of my Mary, the woman I’d planned to make my wife so long ago, and vaguely wondered if her descendants were still running the blintz shop in Lyon. Perhaps I would go there one day and enjoy one.

This woman, though blond and petite, did not resemble her. My Mary had been a delicate flower; this woman looked capable of anything.

“What brings you here today, Mr Watson?” she asked, smiling.

I opened my mouth to explain, but embarked on another paroxysm of coughing instead. “Cough,” I choked out.

“I see.” She typed on her tablet for a moment. “How long have you been ill?”

“A week.”

She listened to my heart and took my blood pressure. I’d seen this gadget on the telly, and watched with interest as she pumped up the cuff.

“Any other recent illnesses?” she asked.

“In December I had pneumonia.”

“What treatment were you given?”

“Just bed rest,” I said.

“No course of antibiotics?”

I shook my head.

“You did not see a doctor?”

This would seem strange to her, I realised. “I was… traveling. Abroad, remote areas. The doctor did not prescribe anything.”

“When was the last time you had a physical exam?”

 _1878_ , I thought. That would not do, though. “Er, when I joined the army.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine. My birthday—”

“Yes, we’ve got that on your card. Let’s get your weight and height then.”

I stood on a scale and watched as she adjusted the weights, very similar to the scales we used in my day. She took my height. “Nine stone, ten. Five feet, six inches.”

She typed this information on her tablet. Finally she stood, gave me a dazzling smile, and said, “Take off your shirt and trousers. You may put on this gown, opening in the front.” She held up a square of folded paper. “The doctor will see you in a few minutes.”

I removed my garments as instructed, unfolded the _gown_ and put it on like a jacket. I sat on the examination table, feeling naked.

The doctor, who appeared after ten minutes or so, was an Indian woman.

“I am Doctor Biswa,” she said. “I see it’s been a while since you had a complete exam, Mr Watson. An annual physical is something I would recommend. We won’t do all of that today, but I’d like to check you over in case there is another problem.”

The pretty nurse returned to the room with the tablet. Apparently, she was going to take notes _._

My mouth opened and closed without any sound coming out. “You’re a woman,” I finally rasped.

She smiled. “Would you like to see my medical license?”

“No— I mean — I do not intend any disrespect, Dr Biswa. I am simply… er…”

The two women looked at one another. “He’s embarrassed,” said Mary.

Dr Biswa nodded. “I see. There is no reason to be nervous, Mr Watson. I have treated many male patients, and none of them died of embarrassment.”

She pressed the stethoscope to my chest. “One-twenty,” she said. “Try to relax, John. Deep breath in… now out… in… out.” She took the earpieces out of her ears. “Congested.” She felt my neck. “Swollen glands.”

She looked down my throat and into my nose, using a small lighted instrument.

“We’ll take a swab, see if there’s any strep. Lie back now.”

She began to palpate my belly. My stomach muscles tensed. “Do you have regular bowel movements?”

I nodded.

“Any dyspepsia, heartburn, diarrhoea, nausea?”

“No.”

“Any headaches, chest pain, shortness of breath?”

“I believe those are normal when one has pneumonia,” I said. “Ordinarily I do not experience those things.”

“All right, Mr Watson, sit up. Mary will swab your throat. It will take about a day to culture that, but I think it’s wise to get you started on an antibiotic.”

“Yes, thank you.” I knew that my face was bright red by then. I could feel a cold trickle of nervous sweat soaking into the thin gown.

Dr Biswa swept out of the room, leaving me with Mary.

She held a tongue depressor. “Open wide.”

After stabbing my throat with a cotton-tipped stick, she slid the swab into a plastic sheath. “I’ll be back with your script. You can get dressed.”

I hurriedly pulled on my shirt and trousers, feeling ill with embarrassment.

She returned as I was buttoning my shirt, and handed me a slip of paper.

“Here you are, Mr Watson. A prescription for amoxicillin. You’ll need to take this for ten days. Even if you start to feel better, carry on taking the pills until they are gone. The infection will return if you stop. If you miss a dose, take it as soon as you remember. Now, we need to schedule a follow-up, just a quick appointment so we can listen to your lungs again. We’re also recommending that you schedule a complete physical with labs.”

I looked at the script. “A chemist can dispense this?”

“Of course.”

She sent me off with two appointment cards and a pamphlet entitled _Everyday Health: Pneumonia_.

 

Amazingly, I started to feel better quickly. I looked up information about the drug and found that it was a form of penicillin and that I might have nausea or diarrhoea as a result of taking it. I felt fine, though, and was able to resume my walking within a week. Quite a miracle, indeed.

 

Another visitor came to the flat, Molly Hooper, the pathologist.

“I heard you had pneumonia,” she said.

“I’m much better,” I said. “Penicillin, you know.”

“I’m glad.” She looked around the flat. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Away. On business.”

“When will he be back?”

“I’m not certain. It’s for a case. Is there a message I might relay to him, if I hear from him?”

“No. It’s just that I hadn’t seen him for a while.”

We smiled at one another awkwardly.

“Where did you meet him?” she asked.

“You were there,” I pointed out. “In your lab. That was the day we met.”

“I remember.” She looked a bit puzzled. “But he seemed like he recognised you.”

“Really? I don’t recall…”

“The two of you… well, it seems like…” She blushed. “He doesn’t have friends. Except you. You’ve been different from the beginning, the day you came into the lab.”

I didn’t know what to say. My ears burned and my eyes threatened to tear up.

She smiled. “You’re worried about him.”

“I am.” Biting my lip, I struggled to blink back my tears.

Before I could object, she put her arms around me. “He’ll be back,” she whispered, holding me close. “He always comes back.”

“We didn’t have enough time,” I whispered.

 

On one of my evening walks, I stopped into a small eatery to pick up some dinner. I had gotten used to Indian food, which I remembered from my time in the army, and also enjoyed Turkish and Thai. Lestrade had introduced me to tacos. London was much more diverse than in my day, and it seemed a good thing, overall.

As I was waiting to order my curry, I heard a voice behind me. “Mr Watson!”

I turned. It was Mary, the pretty blonde nurse from the clinic.

“Hello,” I said. “How are you?”

She was dressed in leggings and a tight shirt, obviously having come from an exercise class. “I’m fine. John, isn’t it?”

Even after nearly five months, I still hadn’t gotten used to hearing people use my Christian name — especially women. Whatever invisible wall had stood between the genders in 1881 had long ago disappeared, leaving us all to call each other by our most intimate names.

I nodded and didn’t know what to say. I tried not to look at her below the neck.

“Do you eat here often?” she asked.

“I live close by,” I said. “It’s quite convenient.”

“Do you live alone?”

I began to see where this was going. Women in this century are not coy; they demand what they want. “No.”

“Girlfriend?” She smiled aggressively.

“Not my area,” I said.

“Ah,” she said. “Boyfriend.”

For a moment, I lost control of my face. “How could you know that?” I whispered.

She smiled suggestively. “I probably know more about you than most people, Doctor Watson.”

The line moved up. I ordered my Lamb Madras; she ordered Vegetarian Biriyani. We stood to the side to wait for our orders.

I reflected on her words. She knew my medical record, which was probably what her innuendo was about. But she had called me _Doctor_ Watson. At the clinic I was careful not to use that title.

“I am not a doctor,” I said to her.

She was looking at her phone, a habit I hadn’t yet developed. “Yes, you are. Your credentials are a bit out of date, however.”

“Who are you?”

“We have something in common.” She looked up. “We’re both time travellers.”

“Where — when—”

“We must not talk here and now, Doctor. Be careful. He intends to kill you.”

I did not need to ask _who._ “How do you know this?”

“A better question for you to ask might be _when?_ And I don’t know the answer to that. I am just suggesting that if you want to see Sherlock Holmes again, you should keep your eyes open.”

“Why are you doing this? Why tell me this?”

Her smile was sad. “Because I’ve seen what happens if I don’t.”

I looked around. There were tables and chairs in the small eatery. “Would you like to… erm… I’m not suggesting that you… that we…”

She surveyed the other patrons and I realised that her interest in them was more than curiosity. “It would be better if we were not seen together, John. Right now, we’re just people who’ve met at a clinic and recognised one another at an Indian takeaway. We can’t let it appear to be more, though. He has more than one set of eyes.”

“I understand.”

“I’m due to leave soon.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Russian Revolution.” She smiled. “Strange to talk about, isn’t it? Like I’m just going to hop on a plane and be back in a few weeks.”

“Will you come back?”

“That’s my plan. I’ll have to time it right, but I should be able to come back.”

They called our orders. We walked out together.

In a low voice, she said, “Some of us do not support his agenda.” Then in a louder, more cheerful voice, “Nice running into you, Mr Watson. I hope you’re taking care of that cough.”

We nodded our goodbyes and walked in opposite directions. I did not look back. There were many questions I wished I could have asked her, but not at the cost of anyone’s life.

Her caution had awakened a similar wariness in me. In my life, I have often trusted, nearly as often been betrayed. I blame myself for this naiveté, and I must now learn this lesson. It is romantic to think that people harbour kind feelings for their fellow humans. I can no longer afford my rose-coloured glasses. I had no reason to trust anyone, even someone like Mary who seemed to be a friend, and I was thankful that I hadn’t given away more.

I felt that I could trust Mycroft. He had promised that his people would keep their eyes on the flat, but even they could not guarantee that I would be safe. He might be the British government, he might even know a lot about Moriarty, but he’d admitted he knew little about time travel. He would not betray me, I thought, but neither could he protect me.

The only person I was sure I could trust was over a hundred years away, and right now, I felt as if I needed to protect him. I just wasn’t sure how to do that.


	14. Physical Sciences

June 2010 / John H Watson

The weather became warmer and less wet, and as it was much more pleasant to walk about, I spent part of each day exploring the city. As Holmes had done, I found myself making comparisons to the London of my memory, trying to remember what building had stood where the new Tesco had been built, looking at cornerstones and seeking evidence of Victorian architecture in the terraced houses that lined certain streets.

None of this did much to revive my spirits. With every day that passed, my sense of loss increased. I speculated often on what had gone wrong, why Holmes wasn’t back after all this time. Something must have happened. If the device had malfunctioned, surely he would have found a way to fix it. Or he might have taken the one in the British Museum.

This thought gave me pause and a reason to get some fresh air. After a half hour’s walk, I found myself standing before the very building Holmes and I had visited just a few months earlier.

Inside, it was quite changed, no doubt to accommodate modern interests. The galleries were more open and spacious, the exhibits better lit, with electronic displays on some that provided information. I sought out the medieval exhibit and went straight to the timepieces.

After ten minutes of searching, I found it, now in a corner with sextants and barometers and other nautical instruments. It bore a new label, which I squinted to read.

_This device was found in a pawnbroker’s shop near Lambeth Road in London in 1882. Estimated to have been built in the early eighteenth century, its purpose is unknown. The lettering, believed to be an ancient Celtic dialect, has never been deciphered._

I read the label five times, each time trying to wrap my mind around what it could mean. Was this the same device? The Edinburgh device I’d stolen looked roughly the same as the one we’d seen in the museum. Holmes had commented that the one I stole was not as well cared-for as the museum device. The Edinburgh case had a barely visible crack along the back. Finding an angle where I could see the back of the display, I observed the crack. This was almost certainly the Edinburgh device, the one that had brought me here. But what had happened to the one originally in the museum?

I found a docent lurking in the medieval collection and asked, saying I was an author (not a lie) who was interested in using it in a story (possibly a lie). Her name tag read _Kelsey._

“It is rather mysterious,” Kelsey said, smiling. “What do you imagine it was?”

I tried not to stare at her well-endowed chest, which seemed a bit close for comfort. Her cleavage, as they call it, was rather on display, I thought. I could feel my ears turning red. (Would I never get used to these modern women?) “I had an idea that it could be a time machine. In my story, a man finds this device and accidentally goes back in time.”

“How interesting,” she said, and really looked interested. “Science fiction is your genre?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, nodding.“One has to do research, though, even if it is fiction. Must be believable, you know.”

She found me the name and contact information of a man who had researched the device, a professor of nautical history at Cambridge University. I thanked her, accidentally tipped my invisible hat (still habit, especially with women), and left.

The next step required me to use the phone Mycroft had given me. I had not yet attempted to make any calls, but I had often observed Sherlock doing so. I touched the numbers and listened.

“Professor Maxwell, please,” I said when I heard a woman’s voice speak.

Soon I heard a man’s voice. “This is Henry Maxwell.”

I explained who I was and why I was interested in the device.

“Time machine.” He chuckled. “Rather inventive. You writers, always spinning something fantastic out of something quite ordinary.”

“Yes, sir. That is my trade. I was wondering if any similar device has ever been found. Has the museum ever had another piece like this?”

“No. I am quite sure there isn’t another like this one. Why do you ask?”

I made up a silly explanation about my plot requiring more than one device to locate coordinates or some such thing. He laughed, but did not ask more.

“What do you think its purpose was, Professor?” I asked, curious as to what a scholar of history would make of it.

He launched into a long explanation about longitude and tides and other things unfamiliar to me as a landlubber. When he reached the end of his lecture, he had no real answer, but I thanked him all the same.

“You’ll send me a copy of that book, I hope?” he said, chuckling once more. “Maybe put me in a footnote?”

“I’d be happy to do that, sir. You’ve helped me a lot.”

“What was your name again?”

“John H Watson.”

“I’ll be looking for you on the bestseller list then, Mr Watson.”

 

I had made my first phone call, another step in my progress as a man of the twenty-first century. And I had another mystery to solve. What had happened to the original museum device?

Clearly, history had changed since I traveled here.

My understanding of the physical world was limited to what I’d learned as a student. In chemistry, the conservation of mass is a basic assumption. _Nothing can come from nothing._ Matter can be converted to another form, but not simply disappear, as I understood it.

If time travel was possible within the physical world (and my presence here was living proof of that, as was Sherlock’s trip to 1881), there must be some way that matter was conserved across time. There could only be one John Watson, one Sherlock Holmes, one mouse.

To make sure I was understanding the science correctly, I used Sherlock’s laptop computer to look this up. There I learned about _special relativity_ , a theory widely accepted since the mid-twentieth century. I read about simultaneity, and causality. _An effect cannot occur from a cause that is not in the past._

Nothing I did in 2010 could affect Sherlock in 1882. But 2010 was in a line of causality that included 1881. He had lived with me in that year for weeks, which must have changed some things in 2010. When I thought about it in terms of cause and effect, he should have known me when I appeared in the path lab at Bart’s, even though (from his perspective) we hadn’t met.

I read about the _butterfly effect._ In chaos theory, a tornado in one part of the world could result from the flapping of a butterfly’s wing on the opposite side of the world. Small actions could produce great effects. Just by walking in the past, it seemed, one could alter the future. What had Holmes set in motion in 1881? Certainly he had moved me, and here I was in 2010, creating further ripples in time.

_So be it_ , I thought. I did not especially care about what happened in 2011 or after, as long as Holmes could return to me. Whatever had changed, we would figure it out.

What happened when one entered the stream of time? Could one remember the past, even if, in terms of causality, it hadn’t occurred yet? If Sherlock returned, what would he remember? Would he notice the changes? I wished I had asked Mary some of these questions. She seemed frightened of Moriarty, eager to leave this time. I wondered if she had come here from some distant future, knowing what was going to happen.

Perhaps I was thinking about it wrong. Clearly, the existence of time travel meant that our understanding of the physical world was, if not wrong, at least trifling compared to the reality. Just as I could little have imagined the sheer amount of information that now existed, perhaps our knowledge of the physics of time travel was about to be dwarfed by what humans would soon understand. There was much we did not yet understand.

I am a man of action, not theory. I felt in my bones that I needed to do something. Mary must have known the location of another device. Why hadn’t I asked her? If I could access it, I might travel to the future and see what had changed. And if I then traveled back to 2010, I might stop Moriarty.

I thought about all these things, trying to understand what it meant. But most especially, I thought about that mouse, and how it might have disappeared.

 

I awoke one night in the midst of a most vivid dream. Sherlock was in the bed beside me. I could feel his warmth radiating from his side of the bed. I heard him breathing. For a moment I lay there, my eyes closed, imagining that it was real. I felt his hands on me, exploring my manhood. And I prayed that it was not a dream, that he had finally come home to me. _Oh, God…_ His fingers held me, stroked me, and I almost wept for happiness. I wanted to touch him, but feared I would wake as soon as I felt his skin beneath my hands. I breathed deeply, smelled his perfume—

“Help!” I cried, rolling over the side of the bed. I landed on the floor, tangled in the bedding. “Who are you?” I demanded, pulling the sheet around me. “What are you doing here?”

I groped for the light switch and in seconds could see who was in my bed. Well, it was actually Sherlock’s bed. But it was not Sherlock who was lying there, naked, smiling at me, smelling of unfamiliar perfume.

“Hello.” The woman leaned back on the pillow. The bedding was all on the floor by now, except the sheet, which I endeavoured to wrap around me.

While I was endeavouring to wrap, I said, “I will ask you again, Madam. Why are you in my bed?”

“I’m seducing you.” She sat up and knelt on the bed. She was a lovely creature, by any man’s standards, even those of an invert, with a face one might be willing to die for. Dark hair, blue eyes, ivory skin, lovely breasts…

I tore my eyes away. “Who are you?”

“Does it matter? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” She had an accent. _French?_

“I thought you were a dream,” I said, fiercely willing my manhood to cooperate with my intentions. “I thought you were… someone else.”

“You thought I was Sherlock.”

I gasped. “You know him?”

“Not personally. Never met him in the flesh.” She smiled. “So to speak. Your flesh, however, Dr Watson…” She leaned forward and crawled towards the edge of the bed like a tigress. “I’d like to help you with your problem.” She nodded at my member, which had not flagged in its attention. “A rather _large_ problem, I would say. A _great_ shame. If only you weren’t an invert—”

“I prefer the term _gay,”_ I said, stepping back. “I think you should leave now.”

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves properly, Doctor. I know your name, but you don’t know mine.”

“I believe introductions are irrelevant at this point,” I replied. “This is not a social event, Madam. You are trespassing.”

“Are you not even curious as to how I got by your guards?”

_Mycroft’s men_ , I thought. He’d said the flat would be under surveillance. It was rather alarming that this woman had managed to get by them. “You’re working for Moriarty,” I said.

“My name is Irene Adler,” she said. “And you are correct. I do work for Dr Moriarty.”

“Why have you come here?”

She swung her feet to the floor, stood, and began stalking towards me. “I’ve already told you my purpose. I’m here to seduce you.” She took my face in her hands. “I know where you’re from. When you’re from.”

I wrenched myself out of her grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She chuckled. “He sent Sherlock back. Sherlock sent you here. Why?”

“Where is Sherlock?”

“I assume he’s where you left him. Perhaps he sent you to do something in 2010. Perhaps you bring a message for Moriarty.”

I decided that it was better not to talk. Obviously she was sent to get information from me. Moriarty hadn’t expected me to be here, and saw me as a threat. Mycroft was right; I was in danger.

Fortunately, my tumescence was waning by this time. I tried to think of England. _Alfred the Great, Edward the Elder…_

“My dear man,” she said. “It will be better if you talk.”

“My dear woman,” I replied. “Perhaps you should be doing the talking. Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because he will kill you if you don’t.”

“What good will that do him?”

“He is using you for bait,” she said. “He wants to bring Holmes in.”

“And how is Holmes to know this?”

“He will send someone back to tell him.”

I thought of Mary then. _Some of us do not support his agenda._ “You are a time traveler.”

“Yes.”

“How many people does he have working for him?”

She shrugged. “Enough.”

“Why do you work for him? What did he promise you?”

“Doctor,” she said sharply. “Time travel or no, we are all hostages to time.” She began to pull on a pair of dark pants and a t-shirt and to tuck her long hair under a knit cap.

“Don’t be cryptic,” I said. “Just say what you mean.”

She laughed. “You are very confident for a man who sleeps in the bed of his dead lover.”

I clenched my fists. “I don’t believe you. He is alive, somewhere. And he will return to me.”

She opened the bedroom window and hoisted one leg over the sill. “Perhaps he will return. And perhaps you will be dead.”

Then she was gone.


	15. Playing God

July 2010

After Miss Adler’s visit, I wallowed in more unhappy speculation. That moment in the bed, when I thought Holmes had returned, haunted me. I desperately missed him, but until that moment hadn’t allowed myself to do more than wait, suppressing my hopes. Every day, I’d told myself _one more day, I can make it through one more._ In this manner I’d endured over three months of waiting. The little pieces of information I’d gathered were like pocket change to a man slowly starving to death.

I felt a helpless dread when I thought about Sherlock. How could I, downstream from the events he was living, help him? What had he been doing, that Moriarty wanted to call him back? Why did he need me as _bait_ , as the woman had put it? One baits a trap to lure in prey. Did Holmes know he was in danger? Had he decided to remain in 1882, believing that it was too perilous to return?

There was really only one person who could answer my questions, and Mycroft was keeping him away from me. The bait, I decided, must be reeled in.

Sherlock had what was called a _blog_ , I discovered. The word was short for _web-log_ , _web_ being the World Wide Web, which was something on the internet, from what I could tell. It was meant to be a log or diary which a person wrote and published on the internet for others to read.

His blog, _The Science of Deduction_ , dealt mainly with topics such as the analysis of various types of evidence (ash, soil, etc) and logical principles which can be applied to making deductions. He did not have many readers, according to the small counter at the bottom of the page. I suppose people are not really interested in theory; all they want is for you to find their necklace or tell them where the will is hidden. I smiled, remembering Sherlock detailing how he had figured out mysteries both small and large, including my father’s watch, my wardrobe, my moustache, and my limp.

My moustache had grown in satisfactorily, by the way. I purchased a small tin of wax at the chemist and now looked like myself again. I passed hipster shops, stared longingly at the hats. Perhaps when winter began I would find suitable bowler. These small plans helped me forget my troubles.

I spent a day reading his entire blog. His last post was a week before his departure; it dealt with tattoos, the type of inks used and designs typical of various demographic groups. His writing was very dry and scientific, revealing nothing of the warm and interesting man I had known. A few had written comments, which he responded to in few words.

It occurred to me that Professor Moriarty, if he was truly obsessed with Sherlock, might read his blog. I had clicked buttons and discovered that one could receive a notice every time something new was posted.

I wrote a post. Actually, more of a notice.

_Seeking information regarding butterflies and their effects._

_Please contact via email:_ [jhwatson1881@email.com](mailto:jhwatson1881@gmail.com)

 

Mycroft had previously helped me set up the email account and made it so I could use my phone to read it. I had never used it. I did not walk around with my eyes focused on that tiny screen, as so many did, but I began to see the addictive qualities of the device. Once I posted my message to Moriarty on the blog, it was hard not to keep checking my mailbox.

After two days, a response: _Starbucks on Marylebone 2 pm Friday 23_ _rd_ _July._

 

It was not a busy time to meet at a coffee shop. Morning caffeine addicts were long gone, and the lunch crowd had cleared out.

I did not know what Moriarty looked like, so I scanned the crowd, hoping he might know me. When I saw a man with dark, slicked-back hair smiling at me, I approached.

“Moriarty?” I said. He was a bit taller than me, average build, with a kind of restless energy that made him seem always to be in motion. His eyes were so dark they might have been black. I guessed him to be older than me by a few years. Forty, perhaps.

But when you’re a time traveler, I reflected, age doesn’t mean much. Just days earlier, I had turned one hundred and fifty-eight. Moriarty might be three hundred years old, for all I knew.

“Call me Jim,” he said. “Please, order what you like.”

I went to the counter and asked for tea with milk. He followed me and ordered a tall latte and several biscotti. “I have a sweet tooth,” he said, grinning to reveal a set of perfect teeth.

We took a table in a back corner and faced one another.

“Look at you,” he said, dunking one of the biscotti in his coffee. “Nice moustache.”

“Thank you.” He did not seem in any hurry to converse, but since I was the one who had made the invitation, it was my responsibility to begin. “You may have been surprised to receive my message.”

He chuckled. “I was. You’ve adapted to our century quickly. The blog, the email, the phone. You’re a fast learner, Doctor.”

“Are you of this century, then?” I asked.

“Like you, I am a product of the Victorian Age. Born in Dublin, Ireland, 1820.”

“Is Moriarty your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you learn about time travel?”

“From a man whose real name I never learned. He called himself Aristidis.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I did.”

He did not seem very cut up about it. “Why did you kill him?” I asked.

He shrugged. “He was boring. This wonderful _thing_ he had, this device, and all he wanted to do was preserve the past. He did not see any of the possibilities that I saw. He dismissed the opportunities open to a man with such a device.”

“And what do you plan to do with it?”

“It’s already in motion, Doctor.” He took a sip of his latte. “This is so much better than what passed for coffee in the seventeenth century.”

“Where did Aristidis get the device?”

“Patience, John. May I call you that? This century is so casual about names. We’re all on a first name basis even before we know who we can trust.” He shrugged. “Call me old-fashioned, but I think people should be a bit more careful. Giving me your email, for example. How do you know I’m not selling it to spammers or using it to put a virus on your computer?”

I said nothing.

He giggled, a high-pitched trill that was somehow chilling. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to take advantage. Would you like my last _biscotto_?”

“No, thank you.”

“Let me tell you a story, John. I was born, as I said, in 1820. I was a bright young man, for my time. Which means nothing in 2010. But in 1840, before you were even a twinkle in your drunken daddy’s eye, I was at Oxford, studying philology — ancient languages, you know. I learned Greek, Latin, Aramaic, Egyptian. It was the age of archaeology. The things you now see in the British Museum — I was there when they were unearthed.” He sighed and closed his eyes, as if traveling back in his mind. “I was at the early excavations in Greece. It was there that I met a time traveler. He said he had come from the twenty-third century, his purpose being to preserve relics of the past that had been lost by his time. He would find these items and put them where they could later be discovered rather than destroyed in a raid or buried in an earthquake. He had visited the Library at Alexandria, he said, rescuing books before the great fire that destroyed that site.”

“Had he found the device, or did he invent it?”

He wagged a finger at me. “You’re getting ahead, Doctor. Be patient. He had a device, and he understood how it worked. He said that it had been planted by a civilisation after his own time. What was needed to make it work, he said, was a portal. Fortunately, portals exist all over the world. They are easy to find if you know what to look for. Holy spots, oracles, standing stones — all of these are signs of what ancient people recognised about these places, where some kind of weakening of the time barrier exists that would allow not only one’s consciousness to slip away, but one’s body as well. The device simplifies navigation, but the ancients knew the process. Aristidis said that his people had already built and planted several devices near these portals. They used these to travel back and forth, saving bits of civilisation from decay.

“The thing he didn’t explain well was the paradoxes, but I later figured it out. He said there were laws. First: the devices themselves cannot travel through portals. If you are stranded and don’t have one, don’t know how to make one, you are simply stuck. This is why the devices are planted in places where most travellers would know to look for them — museums, for one. Libraries, monasteries, and so forth. Protected locations. Second: travel within one’s own lifespan is not allowed because it can create a fatal paradox.”

_That is what happened to the mouse. Somewhere in time, perhaps, its corpse was rotting._ “You have traveled back and forth between centuries, you say. Are you not able to go back to your own lifetime?”

“Not advisable. Why risk it?” He smiled. “You’re thinking of Sherlock. I’ve been checking old newspapers to see what happened, but there’s nothing. I’m afraid he may have fallen into a paradox. I did send someone back there to check on him. He was supposed to be doing a job for me.”

My breath caught. “Holmes was working for you?”

“He didn’t really know what he was getting into, I’m afraid. I explained my plan to him and he didn’t believe me. I offered him a free ride to 1960 and back but, sadly, I was lying. I needed him further back in time.”

“What was he supposed to do?”

“The Victorian era is a treasure trove of ancient books and old manuscripts. Every bookseller has stalls where one can find potentially valuable items. Some people collect them for their historical value, but I have found a better use for them. I do not collect them; I _reposition_ them.”

He waited for my reaction.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, John. Don’t be dull. I’m not sure what Sherlock saw in you; he understood at once.” He glared at me for a moment, waiting for me to catch what he was suggesting. “Oh, very well. What I mean is this: the written word is very powerful. Why do all school boys read Vergil?”

“Because… he wrote an interesting story?”

“Not that interesting. Petronius’ _Satyricon_ is much more interesting to young boys than the _Aeneid_. The sexual exploits of Encolpius and Giton would keep any fourteen-year-old boy riveted to his seat. More graphically put, they would keep a school boy’s hand riveted to his cock, sex being the only thing that truly captures a boy’s imagination. In contrast, Aeneas is a wooden, dull, boring, stupid hero. _Pius Aeneas._ Ugh.”

Like other boys of my era, I had read the Aeneid in school. There wasn’t much sex in that book, as I recalled. If there had been, I might remember more Latin.

“Nobody actually likes Vergil,” continued Moriarty, “and nobody would read him if he had not written the Fourth Eclogue, the so-called _Messianic Eclogue_. You have heard of it? Of course. The Christians didn’t much like Petronius because he talked a lot about sex. They liked Vergil because, in spite of having died too soon to see the birth of Christianity, he predicted Jesus. In the Fourth Eclogue — do you see?”

“I… think so.”

He smiled. “You have forgotten. I will recite it for you:

_“Now from high heaven a new generation comes down._

_Yet do thou at that boy's birth,_

_In whom the iron race shall begin to cease,_

_And the golden to arise over all the world…”_

“It is not very specific,” I pointed out. “It merely mentions a _boy._ And the subsequent race can scarcely be called _golden._ ”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The Christians decided that it was a prophecy of Jesus’ birth and kept Vergil’s works as a result. Dante even made him into a guide in the Christian Underworld of the _Divine Comedy._ He was stuck in Purgatory, unfortunately, because he wasn’t baptised.”

“Christians have always been rule-bound,” I commented. _Poor Petronius…_

“Very true, Doctor. But I digress. My point is that many manuscripts were tossed in the dust bin because someone found the ideas in those manuscripts dangerous, while others were preserved because they fit someone’s political agenda. Now, if a person wanted to alter history, what better way than to make sure some of those dangerous ideas were read, rather than discarded?”

“That’s your plan? To save manuscripts, place them out of harm’s way so that they can be discovered and read? Only instead of preserving the past, you are hoping to alter it.”

He giggled. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Hm. I can see by your expression that you have doubts. Not just any manuscripts, my dear idiot — manuscripts that have been created with a purpose.” He leered at me. “Dear me, do I need to spell it out?”

“You’re writing these manuscripts yourself?”

“Some of them, yes. And I’m also destroying key manuscripts that don’t suit my agenda.”

“Wait. Isn’t that one of the laws of time travel, that you can’t change things?” I remembered Holmes describing how he’d had to leave his phone and wallet behind. “Because you might alter the future…” _Well, that was the point,_ I guessed.

“Ah, yes. Temporal contamination. Items such as clothing are permitted, but identifying items or anything that might alter history — like antibiotics in the seventeenth century — must be left behind and not invented. Actually, it’s not a law, like the first two. More of a rule, like Airport Security with all its tedious restrictions on liquids and aerosols and batteries. As we both know, rules are made to be broken.” He giggled again. That giggle was beginning to grate on my nerves.

“But, even so,” I said. “Even if you destroy manuscripts and ensure that others are discovered, isn’t it a rather slow way to achieve your goal?” It sounded insane, to be honest. I wondered that he had the patience for such a round-about way of creating change.

“I have all the time in the world to change history, my dear. I’ve devoted almost twenty years of my life to it already. I started with a few _undiscovered_ poems of Catullus which I wrote myself. Very raunchy stuff, lots of sodomy. They were discovered in the twelfth century — after I planted them in a church. The Christians hated them, but it was too late for them to be suppressed. My poems led to the creation of the medievalpoems known as _Carmina Burana_ and are now considered a valid part of the Catullan corpus. I wrote some of the _Carmina_ as well. Discovered in 1803. That was my little experiment. The revival of these works in the nineteenth century contributed in many ways to the sexual revolution of the twentieth century, which led to the moral breakdown of society we see today, which puts us at loggerheads with the Muslims, which will eventually lead to—”

“This is insanity,” I said. “How do you predict the outcome of your little experiments? What happens if it doesn’t go as planned — oh. Wait.”

“Aaand — the light goes on,” he said. “Very good, John. Yes, I go back and tweak it if it doesn’t come out according to plan. Well, not me personally, but I have people who assist me in my adjustments. Sherlock, for example. I have plans for him when he’s done in 1882, which is why I had to stop him from leaving with you.”

“You stopped him?”

“An associate of mine did. Not a lover of literature himself, he is nevertheless quite handy with firearms.”

This was both good news and bad news, as I understood it. If Holmes was tracking down manuscripts for Moriarty, perhaps he yet lived. Or perhaps he had died in 1882 and was buried in a paupers field somewhere. I forced myself away from that thought. I had to keep my head, figure this out. How did Moriarty communicate with this _associate_ , I wondered. I had many questions, but decided that knowing too much might make my life expendable to this madman. I held my tongue.

Moriarty continued his monologue. “As an historian, I have taken years to pinpoint key movements and moments in history. I chart the ripple effect. The further back in time you go, the less effect these things have on the modern age. That’s why I’m interested in the Victorian era, a time of rapid change. So much going on there, so many things that can be tweaked for my own ends. Unfortunately, all the best years coincide with my lifespan, so it is not possible for me to return there. I originally had planned to destroy the Catholic Church back in the middle ages, but medieval folk are so dense. It’s much easier to work with literate people who think technology and change are just the bee’s knees. Now, I’m creating the Church of Moriarty, so to speak. I’m using proxies to do the actual locating of the manuscripts and placing them. In just a short time, this world will be a vastly different place.”

“Why? How will this benefit you financially?”

“Oh, dear boy, don’t insult me. Do you really think money is what motivates me? What could be more fun than playing God?”

“What exactly was Sherlock doing for you?”

“I left some writings in Edinburgh. He was to find instructions there.”

_Edinburgh. And I had helped him._

“He will live, then?” I asked. “Because he agreed to help you?”

“He can be quite useful,” Moriarty said. “You, however, are a fly in the ointment, Doctor.”

“Then why are you telling me all this? Why not send me back to 1882?”

“The damage is done,” he said. “But I am not a hasty man. I will see if Sherlock has followed my instructions, and then decide whether to let you live.” He stood and binned our cups. “A pleasure meeting you, Doctor. _Au revoir_.”


	16. From the Past

August 2010 / John H Watson

The worst that I feared had become even worse. If Sherlock had gotten away from Moriarty’s henchman and tried to return to 2010, he was surely dead, or stuck in a paradox where I’d never find him. If he had remained there, it was to serve as one of Moriarty’s proxies and finish his work of destruction. Perhaps he’d been unwilling, forced to work for Moriarty, but it didn’t really change anything now.

_If_. No data. I could not verify any hypothesis.

I could not return to 1882 without dying. Even if we were both alive, we could never be together, except in some other time. But there was no way to communicate a common destination. I could search through time, and never find him. I would do better to stay put.

_There is no timeline in which we will not find one another. I am convinced that I was meant to find you, that I will always find you._

That is what I, in my ignorance, had believed. Perhaps Sherlock had believed it, too, but there was no way now to ever know that. Perhaps I would meet him again — I, as an old man; meeting him, at thirty-two, a returning time-traveller to the twenty-first century.

I sank into despair, even worse than the darkness Holmes had pulled me out of in 1881. Over and over, I went through my options.

I didn’t care if Holmes was working for Moriarty. I knew him, and was positive that he was not a willing accomplice. I would have done the same. I hoped he knew to stay in 1882 and live out the rest of his natural life there. I hoped he knew that I didn’t blame him, that I still loved him, and that I wished…

_What do I wish?_

I had no more wishes left. I was bereft of feelings, hope, and wishes.

But not love.

I would have to kill James Moriarty, I decided. It might change nothing, but it would give me a sense of satisfaction. I would avenge Sherlock. I would pay him for what he’d done to us.

That I had no plan did not discourage me. 

 

Mrs Hudson is a saint.

She was being paid to put up with me, I knew, but she didn’t have to provide tea and biscuits and hugs, as she kept doing. She knew something was out of kilter, that something had gone terribly wrong, that I was in trouble.

She provided me with breakfast each day, didn’t ask when Sherlock would return, and periodically embraced me and patted my back.

 

I went back to the clinic for the annual checkup they’d insisted upon. The nurse was a dark-haired, unsmiling woman. Dr Biswa listened to my lungs and heart and proclaimed me healthy. She said I was underweight. She recommended vitamins.

“Is Mary still working here?” I asked the receptionist.

She shook her head. “She had a bequest from a rich uncle or some relative, said she was going to use it to travel a bit. I believe she was going to Russia.”

 

Mr Lestrade (Greg) asked me out for a pub night. I accepted, fearful that I might overindulge and blow the gaff. But I needed companionship. I needed to talk to someone who knew Sherlock.

I had lost track of days. He came to pick me up.

We sat in a booth, surrounded by happy people. He bought me a pint, and I drank.

After two pints, he said, “You think he’s dead.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope he’s as smart as I think he is. But even smart people sometimes stumble into a paradox.”

He looked at me strangely. _Don’t know that idiom._

_Not an idiom_ , I thought. Paradoxes are real things when you mess with time.

I needed to shift the focus. “How did you meet him?” I asked.

He smiled, but it was a sad, almost bitter smile. “I was working a crime scene when this kid shows up. High, off his tits. Solves the whole bloody case in ten minutes. Mouths off. Everybody’s fed up. But he’s right. Two months later I find him OD’d in an alley, puking on himself. Cocaine and heroin. I take him to the hospital, see him come out of it, and I tell myself, _I’m going to make sure this kid puts his talents to good use._ The next time I feel out of my depth, I call him. He comes, solves it, and I tell him, _You stay clean, and I’ll keep calling._ He says, _deal._ That was a long time ago, but he kept his part of the bargain.”

I nodded. _No wonder he loved 1881, where you can buy cocaine and opium at the chemist. But even then, he didn’t indulge._

“How ‘bout you?” He gestured to the barmaid to bring another pint for each of us. “How’d you meet him?” He chuckled. “And don’t expect me to believe that nonsense about a cult.”

“He was my patient,” I said. “At Bedlam. We all thought he was crazy at first, but he wasn’t. He… became a friend to me. I brought him home to my flat. I fell in love with him.” _This is 2010. I see no point in concealing my feelings._

Lestrade didn’t look appalled or disgusted or incredulous. Smiling, he laid his big hand on my shoulder and said, “He’s a good man. A great man, to be sure. But also a good one.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying not to cry. At least he wasn’t speaking in the past tense. Yet.

“You’ve changed him, you know,” he adds. “He’s less arrogant, less impatient. Seems to realise that other people have feelings. It’s a good change.”

_I’ve changed him._ It had already happened, back in 1881, when he said he loved me and almost seemed surprised that he did. Surprised that I loved him, too.

He’d sent me here because he wanted me to be able to live openly as an invert — a gay man. He wanted that for me, and for himself. I thought we would be together, maybe even marry.

Perhaps he suspected that he could not accompany me to the future. _I’m a fool_ , he’d said, realising that the 2010 he came from might have already changed. That change might keep him from coming back to me.

I tried to think how I would be able to continue living in this world without him.

 

Mycroft picked me up as I was walking home from the pub. I got in the car and leaned back against the upholstery, closing my eyes.

“I need a gun,” I told him.

“Please don’t,” he said. “He would want you to live.”

He said it gently, quietly, as if it were just a suggestion he hoped I’d consider.

I felt his hand on mine, and I knew he was watching me, deducing the odds of me doing anything stupid.

“I need a gun,” I said. “For protection.”

 

The worst part is not knowing.

It’s already happened, a hundred and twenty-eight years ago.

16 January 1882, the day I left…

I searched for London newspapers from that date and the dates following, to see if there was any news of us. The disappearance of a broken army doctor and a consulting madman was not considered newsworthy, apparently. Mycroft’s source about my fate had given no information about Holmes. I had disappeared before my thirtieth birthday, never to return, my stories discovered years later. Sherlock’s fate was unknown. And knowing what I knew now about time travel, it seemed unlikely that he would return.

I sat in our flat, trying to figure out my life from here on. Few men have had the opportunity to know the future, to see their past buried under a stack of old newspapers, to know that it’s lying beneath the concrete and asphalt they walk on each day — cobblestones and dirt and mucked out cisterns, the basement of this very flat probably paved over long since — the basement…

_Basement_.

The box.

Sherlock’s box — he’d put it in the basement — hoping it would be here, now, in 2010—

“Mrs Hudson!” I called, running down the stairs.

 

She had the key, of course. “I cleared it out a bit when I bought the building,” she said, “thinking that I might lease it out, but it’s much smaller than A or B, and has only two tiny windows, and no bath, just a sink, though I suppose I could have…” She was taking the stairs slowly because of her hip. “It hardly seemed worth all the trouble to fix it up, though, for what I could charge.”

“Did you throw much away?” I asked. My heart sank a bit, knowing her housekeeping habits.

“Hm? Oh, it was rubbish, John. Some of it must have been here for decades. There were even some old bottles of ale, at least a hundred years old. Nasty old stuff, I thought, but Mr Tobias — he’s the one who owns the pub on the corner, you know, nice man and very well educated, too — he said that people might want to study it, see what happens to ale when it gets that old. Not like wine, getting better as it gets older. Ale that old couldn’t be drinkable, I said, but he called up some brewers he knew and a man from the Research Institute came and took the whole lot of them. Not to drink, but to study. Gave me fifty pounds for them, too.”

She talked non-stop. I tried not to interrupt, but was on fire to know. As soon as she took a breath, I asked, “What about papers? Were there any boxes?”

“Old newspapers. I binned those. Decades old. Beyond hope. The books were in better shape, but the man at the used book shop said they weren’t valuable, so I left them. Nice man, came all the way over here so I wouldn’t have to haul them there. Chemistry and such, medical texts. Obsolete. But I saved them, just in case someone ever wanted them. You never know when something like that—”

“Mrs Hudson,” I said. “Did you find a box?”

“I found lots of boxes, dear. I always intended to—” She pulled at the door. It stuck.

“Allow me.” I gave it a sudden yank and it flew open. I smelled dust, but no mould.

“Well,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I never got back to finishing the job. What with my hip and all. Rather a mess, I’m afraid.”

“No, no… it’s fine,” I said, hunting for the light pull. I caught the cord in my hand and tugged gently so it wouldn’t break. The light bulb, miraculously, began to illuminate the room.

“Goodness,” she said. “That bulb must have been in that socket since World War Two. They used this as a bomb shelter, you know, during the war. That’s why it’s so dry. Of course, when the building was built, there would have been a coal cellar on the other side, where the furnace is, but I suppose this area would have been for the waste, you know, the plumbing.” She wrinkled her nose. “So glad we don’t have to deal with all of that.”

It wasn’t much light, but I could see that the room was mostly empty. It looked different from what I remembered. An old bureau was against one wall, a chifforobe, some metal folding chairs and a battered card table leaning behind the door. I supposed that most of the furniture in our old flat had been sold when we did not return.

“This was built as a small storage apartment. The cesspool was in the back, beneath the old privy that had served the houses behind. The slope of the ground here means that it didn’t drain under the house, leaving this room and the coal cellar fortunately quite dry.”

She gave me a curious look. “I didn’t know you were a student of architecture, Doctor.”

There were boxes of books. I opened each one, but did not find what I sought.

Mrs Hudson was watching me “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“A wooden box with a clasp. Large, like a file box. Varnished, with metal corners and hinges. Hold on — it should be in the closet.” I could see the outline of a narrow door on the inner wall. It had been bricked over.

“There’s a door behind that arch,” I said. “I’ll need a sledge hammer.”

“Really, John!” she exclaimed. “The house will fall down on our heads!”

“It’s fine,” I said, “I won’t destroy any supporting walls. And I promise to clean up any mess I make.”

An hour later, I’d knocked bricks out and uncovered the door frame. Mrs Hudson watched, more curious than alarmed.

Surprisingly, the knob turned easily. I held my breath.

The first thing I saw was the violin. My heart nearly stopped in my chest. He must have put it here before…

Then, the box. _Oh, my dear, brilliant man._ I lifted it and practically ran up the stairs to the flat. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson!” I called down the stairwell.

“You promised to clean up this mess, young man!” she called back. “I’ll hold you to that!”

_The box_.

I slid the clasp and opened the lid. An envelope lay on top.

_To John. Sunday, 29 January 1882._

_My Dear John…_

 

_End of Part 2_


	17. Patience with Madmen (1882)

_Part Three_

Sunday, 29 January 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

My Dear John,

That you are reading this means that you have found yourself alone in 2010. I am sorry; I did not intend for this to happen. At least I have the opportunity to explain to you what has happened, and to give you some hope that we will meet up again — soon.

I pray that you are not very upset with me. You will have figured out that the box I placed in the basement is more than a way to preserve some things from my time in your century; it is also a possible (albeit one-way) means of communication. I can continue to add letters to the box over a period of weeks, months, or (I hope not) years, and in 2010 they will be there, waiting for you on the day you arrive. I hope that it did not take you too long to find them, and that my explanation of events will be adequate to reassure you that I am working my way towards you.

There have been several mishaps.

First, after seeing you off, I realised that I had made a silly error. (Do not stand in judgment, John. I am brilliant, not perfect.) I had adjusted the dials to land us in 2010, but had made a error in fine-tuning the date. All of this is based on astronomy — the earth’s orbit around the sun, the moon’s orbit around the earth, the alignment of planets, and so forth. Quite complicated, but capable of fairly good accuracy.

Alas, I have never bothered much with the solar system, thinking that it did not matter whether the earth moves around the sun, or the sun around the earth, or whether the entire bloody earth is a disk balanced on four elephants standing on the back of a giant turtle. I was excited and a bit nervous before our departure. As a result, I neglected to properly adjust the temporal destination. My intention was to set it for 06:00 April 1, 2010. As I thought about it, though, I was not sure I had done that correctly.

As I was looking at the device, it occurred to me how fortunate it was that I had caught my mistake. This understanding hit me with such force that I had to sit down in the dirt and catch my breath. Had I not realised my error, and had the device sent me back before April the first, as it most likely did you, my fate would possibly have matched that of our intrepid mouse explorer, who became trapped in a paradox and vanished. You are safe, I trust, because you have not met another version of yourself. But had I popped into 2010 even a few seconds before my departure from that year, there might have been two of me. That, we both know, creates a self-contradictory situation which the physical world must somehow resolve.

What resolution our mouse experienced, I do not know, and I am glad I did not have the chance to experience it myself. My most optimistic hypothesis is that it would have created two separate realities, alternate universes where Holmes One and Holmes Two would continue to exist as separate people, never knowing of the other’s existence, and possibly never seeing you again. But that would have to be another world than the one in which we now live. Neither Mouse One nor Mouse Two is in this world anymore, I think. I hope they are not living in a universe full of hungry cats or giant predatory birds.

This was a lucky catch. I do not believe in a universe that has good intentions or will demand some favour of me in return, but I proceeded with much more humility and caution after this realisation, superstitiously remembering that _luck (good or bad) comes in threes._ Indeed, almost sending myself into an alternate universe was not the end of my troubles.

As I recalculated and prepared make my adjustments, a man materialised nearby. He looked around, spied me with the device, and headed towards me at a run.

A note about materialisation: it was interesting how this looked to me, as an observer this time. He did not suddenly pop into view out of nothing. It was more like a shift of consciousness, where I became aware he was there. In movies (I’ll explain when I get there), cameras and special effects are used to create the illusion that a person has suddenly materialised from another time or place — _pop!_ In reality, it was more like noticing, _oh, there’s a man._ A person seeing this might not notice anything out of the ordinary, which makes me think that people might be doing this and nobody notices. Just a theory of mine. People always use lack of evidence to “prove” that time travel doesn’t exist, asking _where are all the time travellers?_ My theory is that they are among us, but most people just don’t notice. Inattentional blindness is very common.

I noticed he was there; that is all. I did not take time to work through these thoughts when they were happening. The man was only about thirty feet away from me, and he did not look friendly. He looked very large, and very angry. I took my device and ran.

He, however, was prepared to see me, whereas I was not prepared for him. I lost my footing and went down, clutching the device so that it would not break on impact. This meant my shoulder took the brunt of the fall. (Do not worry, Doctor; I am bruised, but not broken.)

The man seized the device from my hands. Moriarty had sent him, he said, to find out why I had not done what he asked. He calls himself Sebastian Moran. I wanted to call him a moron, but, remembering your cheerful patience with madmen, I kept my mouth shut.

Here is where I must confess something that it shames me deeply to admit: I was less than truthful with you in our conversations about Moriarty. I did not actually lie to you, but I omitted to tell you (you are right, a lie of omission is still a lie) that Moriarty conscripted me to assist in an insane plot to alter world history. I did _not_ volunteer. My task was to find several manuscripts. Some I was to destroy, and the others put in specific locations to be found at a later date. He thought I would immediately see the brilliance of this and agree to join him.

I did not agree to be his accomplice, John. I was given a Hobson’s choice: _Join me or die_. When I said he was my enemy, I meant it. He is brilliant, but insane. His motivation, moreover, is not wealth, but power, which makes him a dangerous foe.

I made the decision not to tell you this because I feared I might endanger you. Also, being an unwilling conscript, I felt no loyalty to his agenda.

He told me that my destination was 1881, and that I was to find certain papers which were in the library at Edinburgh University, which would further explain my task.

To say _no_ outright would have been dangerous. I tried to stall him, saying I did not believe his device could do what he claimed. That was when he agreed to a test. He would send me to 1960, he said.

You berated me for trusting him. You were right; I admit I was foolhardy. On the other hand, had I been less of a fool, I would never have met you, my dear friend, my dearer love. If you do not love my foolishness, at least resign yourself to this: this fool’s heart belongs to you.

At any rate, that is how I found myself in 1881, where I did not expect to be. I was disoriented, which made me appear to be a madman, which led me to you.

My first goal was to get out of Bedlam. If I had met some other doctor that day, I might still be there. Instead, I met you, and you believed me. Once we were established at Baker Street and I was bringing in some money, I began to think about what Moriarty said. I had dismissed him as a madman, but his variety of madness now seemed both brilliant and dangerous. I needed to research him in order to judge the level of threat he presented. 

That is why we went to the university, where we did in fact find his notes. We read them, as you recall, you skimming for information about time travel, I reading as well, but seeking the tasks he had assigned. This I found, a list of critical manuscripts that he wanted me to locate, along with the disposition of each item. Even before I read his instructions, I had resolved not to do anything he asked. Reading his notes taught me that he is far more dangerous than any man I’ve known, not just because he is brilliant and power mad, but because he has access to time travel.

Back to the Moron: I made up something about the manuscripts being difficult to locate, needing more time, and so forth. He does not seem like a very smart man. On the contrary, he seems both stupid and vicious, a dangerous combination. He set himself to watch the portal, saying he would not send me back until I could show him the manuscripts I was to find. I believe he has taken a room over the Dog and Duck, and has several boys who take shifts watching the area.

Now it is late. Outside, the snow is falling and I am cold in 221B without you beside me. I see your bowler on the couch where you left it after I told you that men don’t wear hats in 2010. I think of your face when we said goodbye, when I told you I would see you soon.

Tomorrow I must find another device and a different portal and attempt to join you. I do not know how long this will take. I will endeavour to hurry, love. Please wait for me.

I do not know what date you arrived in 2010, but it is my hope that you will not miss me for long. Perhaps I will materialise at the Imperial War Museum a minute after you do. Then I will tell you how many weeks I was delayed, and we’ll laugh. We’ll go to Baker Street and find this box, these letters, and I will watch you read them, loving your expressive face, seeing the joy you feel that we are together at last, for good, knowing that we nearly lost one another for good.

But I know that if I am delayed, you will adjust to life in a new century; you are a quick and enthusiastic learner. I hope that you will not regret trusting me.

Good night, my dear John.

Your Sherlock

 

Tuesday, 1 February 1882

My Love,

I was tempted to deceive the Moron, but thought better of it. My midnight plan, born of desperation, was to create my own documents and pass them off as the ones Moriarty is looking for. Moron may know how to read, but he is no student of literature.

Alas, it is clear that he realises his lack of expertise and will need to show the manuscripts to Moriarty (by some means similar to the box in which you found this letter) before I am allowed to return to my own time. I fear that it will take years to do what he demands. All this means is that another plan will be necessary. As I am smarter than Moron, this will be quite feasible.

My plan, thus far, is to kill him. Just so you know, I understand that killing is bad, but he is not a very nice man.

I went to Bloomsbury the other day and wandered through the bookseller stalls. If I am being watched, at least it will look as if I am trying to fulfil my commitment. If I understand Moriarty’s method correctly, he intends to suppress some manuscripts while allowing others, which would have been lost, to be found at critical points in history, thus changing the trajectory of time. I say, two can play that game.

You and I talked about the necessity of not altering history by introducing inventions before their time. The same applies to ideas. What Moriarty underestimates, however, is the difficulty of changing culture. It is true that the pen is mightier than the sword, but swords are a lot quicker in their effect.And I have no doubt but that Moriarty will ultimately be willing to use the sword to achieve his ends.

It is clear that this man needs to be stopped.

I am curious as to why he does not come here himself and look for the manuscripts he wants. I speculate that it involves some temporal paradox. What was his birth year, I wonder?

Tomorrow I will visit the British Museum and begin to figure out how I can steal the device on display there. It will be risky, but I am willing to take risks at this point, if it brings me back to 2010 sooner.

I wish I had you with me. Somehow I think better when you are at my side. Though you continually denigrate your own intelligence, my genius is nothing without your character. You remind me of what matters, when I would discard sentiment as irrelevant. How often I have said, _Watson, you see but do not observe._ You might say to me, _Holmes, you observe, but you do not feel._

Perhaps I am babbling; you will understand what I mean.

I am tired now, and discouraged, and grasping at ideas without discrimination. I am impatient to act, but have no reasonable plan of action.

Sleep eludes me. I will play my violin and pretend you are sleeping in the other room.

Sweet dreams.

Your Sherlock


	18. A Poor Revolutionary

Tuesday, 14 February 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

Dearest John,

I am enclosing a small token I bought today at a stationer’s shop in Bloomsbury. In my age, Valentines are mass-produced and often feature images of cartoon characters. I never thought much about their purpose when I lived there. The idea of expressing love by sending someone a cheap, silly card made no sense to me.

When I was a boy in school, my classmates often made much of the day. For me, it was a day to be ignored, which was usual, but also a day for them to flaunt what I was missing. I hardly think that they understood what their taunts meant. (Why do people think that children are sweet and innocent? They are predators. To them I was simply a freak, and children will always spot weakness and pursue it relentlessly. Valentine’s Day, like so many cultural traditions, is simply a way to sort people socially.)

But when I saw those pretty little cards with their Cupids and hearts and lacy flowers, I understood another use for them. I cannot be with you; I send you my heart with this token. _Be mine._

I am discouraged. The Moron keeps vigil over me. Yesterday he came to the flat. Fortunately, I had hidden our box in the closet and he, not bright enough to suspect anything, simply delivered his threat. He was visited by one of Moriarty’s people who says that there is no evidence in 2010 that I will complete my assignment. It is odd to think of it this way, but because he is in 2010, he can already know what I will do in 1882. He has not seen the changes he is looking for, which means that I have failed, or, more accurately, I will fail. It does not matter how much time he gives me; my efforts will not succeed — unless something changes.

What must change is _me,_ from Moriarty’s perspective, and he is using Moran to motivate me so that the agenda will move forward. I have little faith that he will succeed, not just because I am unwilling to help him, but because most events of history are not pivotal. He thinks that one document can overturn all other forces that move humans forward.

I look back over time and wonder, what would have happened if Hannibal had captured Rome? Would Europe be speaking Carthaginian-based languages instead of Latin-based languages? Would we have different legal and political systems if the Romans had lost the Punic Wars? There is no way to answer these questions.

History consists of many small influences accumulating into large movements — cultural, intellectual, religious, political. I know the effect that one document, one speech, one human being can have on history, but I am not convinced that Moriarty’s method of suppressing some documents and saving others will have the effect he expects. I fear that, if frustrated, he may branch out into other things — assassinating historical figures of importance, tampering with governments, suppressing information. What if, for example, he were to prevent the invention of antibiotics? What if he introduced automatic weapons in the Middle Ages, or killed off key figures of the Renaissance? I do not wish to become an assassin.

As I said, I don’t think that Moriarty completely understands time travel. I am attempting to learn all I can, but with so few sources, it is nearly impossible. One thing I wonder about: if a time traveler makes changes, do people wake up in the future aware that something has changed? (Obviously not.) Or do their brains automatically adjust to the new reality? (More probable.) It is clear that Moriarty, a time traveler, can tell when changes have been made in the past that affect the future. Presumably, this is because he has stepped out of his own timeline and has a perspective to notice these changes. But I am not sure about all this. I will make a point of noticing when I return if anything is different from what I remember before my departure.

I ramble.

My point is this: Moriarty has threatened to have Moran kill me. I might die in 1882. Perhaps you already know that I have died. (Oh, John, I hate to think that you might be reading my obituary in an old newspaper, that you might mourn me.) I do not think this will happen, but I am on my guard. My dearest John, I will prevent this from happening by any means possible, if only so that you will not be alone.

Moran also warns me that you are in danger. Moriarty will kill you if he thinks I am obstructing his plan. This is how he expects to motivate me. My love, I will do what I can in 1882 to stop him, but you must also be on your guard. He must not kill you. If he does, he kills both of us.

Let us be practical, my dear man. I will continue my efforts to appease Moron and his boss. You must find allies too, John, who will help you defeat Moriarty.

You have met my brother Mycroft. Let him be an ally, even a confidant. Of all people in the year 2010, he is the most likely to believe whatever you tell him, and, through his position in the government, he has the power to protect you. I never told you much about him, other than the fact that we don’t get along. It’s a long story.

I have hinted at my wayward youth, my drug abuse and other questionable activities. My parents, distressed by my behaviour, but ineffective at controlling me, ceded that responsibility to Mycroft. He is a typical older brother in that he feels responsible for everything. _It’s all on my shoulders_ , should be his motto. He took his charge over me very seriously, which did not sit well with my younger self. I am grateful to him for his intentions, at least, though his methods were quite draconian. We have never quite fallen out of the habit of despising one another.

In spite of this, he is a person I trust, and he will recognise you as someone I care about. It will surprise him, I think, to see that I have such feelings. Many times he has hinted that I may be a sociopath, though a high-functioning one. Sometimes I believed him. Fortunately, I met a man who taught me to love. _Thank you, sweetheart._

Another person who will be supportive is Lestrade, a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. If you receive threats, tell him. Let hm know it has to do with Moriarty. He knows this name, though he and I have not discussed it. He is not brilliant, but he is honest and can be relentless in his pursuit of wrongdoing. He will understand and take the threat seriously.

I lie on our bed and wonder if you are lying here too, more than a century away. Your scent is still here, in the sheets and blankets. I close my eyes and imagine you are next to me, breathing softly, your face relaxed in sleep. I kiss you gently, and your eyes open. You smile. I arch towards you, letting you feel my arousal, and soon your hands—

Alas, such thoughts do me no good in 1882. I must get back to work. It is a lonely task with no one to confide in. That is quite a confession for me, a man who has always used _alone_ as protection. I will do my best to stay safe, and beg you to do the same.

Your Valentine,

Sherlock

 

Saturday, 18 February 1882

Dear John,

The interval between these letters should not matter to you, who will read them so many years from now. Still, I feel apologetic about the days when I have written nothing. I hope you will understand that I have not been _doing_ nothing during these many days.

In addition to the hours I spend tracking down manuscripts, I have spent some time further reviewing Moriarty’s notes and writings. The book was written early in the eighteenth century, as were the notes. It had occurred to me how easy it might be for him, as a time traveler, to steal another man’s identity, but I am convinced that these were written by the same Moriarty who sent me here. This means that he must have spent some time living in the early 1700’s, posing as a professor of physics. I suspect that if he possesses a degree, it is not in the physical sciences. His information seems incomplete and perhaps even misleading. Since physics is not my strength, it is difficult for me to assess his theories. I do not believe that he invented the device, though. I believe he stole it from another time traveler.

Who is James Moriarty? It is not a rare name, but it is not easy to do this kind of research without the internet. (I am sure that you have learned a bit about that by now, or will soon discover its uses.) I can only speculate, based on what I have read and my impression of the man I spoke with in 2010.

He is not an Enlightenment man. This is just a hunch, based on his ideals, as he expressed them in his writings and to me, in person. The men who brought about the Age of Reason were concerned with liberty, tolerance, progress, and, of course, reason. Moriarty is interested in slavery, dogmatism, ignorance, and repression. I suspect that he is a Victorian, though earlier than you. He spouts a regressive philosophy, a pessimistic view of history that accepts things that you and I both decry. He remembers a world where a strong class system existed, where the poor were considered lazy and slaves were not counted as human. This is the world he seeks to preserve.

Though it is merely a feeling that I have, I think I am not wrong in this. The manuscripts I am seeking are abolitionist tracts written in the early part of this century. These I am instructed to destroy. He assumes that their discovery will assist efforts to end slavery. If they are not discovered, that may delay the abolitionist movement. I am guessing that he intends to plant some sort of evidence that will reinforce the notion that all races are not fully human or capable of rational thought. In my day, we will still see some of these sentiments, though slavery has long been abolished. We have academics who point to IQ and test scores as evidence of these ideas. I assume he is working on the same ideas with regard to suffrage and feminism.

I am unsure about his specific goal. Perhaps he is trying to prevent the Enlightenment. He cannot go much further back and expect to have an effect in the modern era. The small changes he is working on would have the most impact over a generation, not centuries.

When I look at the long span of human history, there are great tracts of years, even centuries, where little has happened. The Dark Ages are one such example. Stable, with little progress, as we usually define that. Domination of thought by a small group of men. This, I believe, is his goal, to return humanity to a Dark Age where ideas of liberation and progress are forgotten. I am horrified as it dawns on me that humans need little stimulus to accept these conditions. It is much harder to create momentum than to slip into inertia. People are too willing to cede their rights when they perceive how difficult it is to maintain freedom, tolerate others, work for a common good, and simply think rationally. These require effort, and humans are, by nature, quite lazy. Speaking in evolutionary terms, we are meant to conserve energy unless there is imminent danger. The danger of losing tolerance and freedom is not a threat that suddenly looms; it creeps upon us, overtaking us gradually. This is what he is counting on — not war or revolution, but the slow creep of complacency.

I am one man, and a poor revolutionary. I lack the temperament to rally an entire culture. The Victorians of England love their progress, but they are superior, racist, sexist, and complacent. They care about the illusion of morality, and, while they may be willing to look the other way, do not like the flaunting of ideas that challenge their notion of what is moral, fair, and right. I begin to fear that few minor events or people— or even words — might swing them in a different direction.

Listen to me — I’m ranting! I have no time for rants or screeds, so let me be rational once again. Ideals are lovely things, but they will not get me out of the mess I’m in. I must be pragmatic.

As a time traveler, I am forced to accept that I have already stepped into the puddle and created ripples. It is inevitable, I think, that you and I are changing — have changed — the future, whether we meant to or not. But I cannot accept the idea of deliberately tinkering with time in this way.

People live and die, and it often seems pointless. I do not want my life (or yours) to be pointless.

John, I must decide what to do about Moriarty. I do not want to throw my life away on a lost cause, but neither do I want to return to a future where there is no hope. I promised you a world much more tolerant than 1882. I will try to make sure that world still exists, and that I can live there with you.

I think of you constantly. I am glad for the violin; it soothes me when nothing else will.

Your Sherlock


	19. We Go to Bedlam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene shares some rather important information about time travel.  
> Sherlock receives bad news and faces a dilemma.

Sunday, 26 February 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

My Love,

Much has been happened.

First, I have located several likely portals, all west of here. There are, as you know, standing stones in a number of places in England. The ancients knew there was something special about these places and built the stones for that reason.

Second, I have a plan to steal the device from the museum. Thank all the gods that security isn’t what it is in 2010; that would require rather a lot of electronic manipulation. All that is required for me to break into the museum is to get by two guards. Actually, just one. I saw that they were looking for another guard, applied for the position, and was hired on the spot. I have been outfitted with a uniform and a hat. A tintype of myself so attired is enclosed, which cost me tuppence.

These are the two requirements: device and portal. Because the device cannot travel through the portal, one has to rely on it being found and returned to a safe place so that it can be found by the next traveler. But it would not make much sense to leave it in the portal, lest an unsuspecting person accidentally transport to another time. Thinking about this, I began to suspect that Moriarty has a number of people working with him, either fools like Moron, or unfortunates like me. I think that some of the devices may have assigned keepers; the ones in monasteries, for example, could be cared for over centuries by monks who believed it was some sacred relic. Purely speculative, but it makes sense. I wonder how many devices there actually are.

Once I have the device, I will attempt to return to you.

Yours Always,

Sherlock

 

Monday, 27 February 1882

More news, my dearest:

I now have an accomplice.

Last night, as I sat contemplating the vagaries of time travel, a visitor came to my door, a well-dressed lady who introduced herself as Miss Irene Adler. I expected that she was seeking my consulting services, and since I have not had many clients in the past couple of months, I invited her to share her situation with me.

I know you want a description of her, so I will oblige, using words that I think you would write: _a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for._

(Do not be jealous, John. You know that women are not my area, and that no one, male or female, can compare to your lovely self. There is no part of a woman that I would die for.)

She sat in your chair, crossed her legs, and looked me up and down as shrewdly as I’ve ever been scrutinised. Then she said, “You intend to leave soon, but you have not yet obtained the means to do so.” She had a trace of an accent, German, I thought.

“What means would that be?” I asked her.

She laughed. “I will not say that you can trust me. You are not a fool, and only a fool trusts a person who says _trust me._ ”

I did not trust her, but found myself intrigued. “Is there some problem I can help you with?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “And I can perhaps help you as well.”

We regarded one another in silence for a while. She shifted in her chair, unfolding and recrossing her legs. You would have known instantly that she was a time traveler, John. No Victorian lady would cross her legs at the knee.

“Berlin,” I said. “Weimar Republic.”

She smiled and nodded. “He was not lying about you.”

I knew who _he_ was. “Did he send you here?”

“No. He does not know. Nor does Moran. I came here from 2010.”

“Moriarty is still there?”

“Indeed. I know you do not fear him, but understand this: time means nothing to him. It is just another tool to bring him power. He does not care how many years you spend here, working on this. And once you have completed your tasks here, he will send you to another time, with more tasks. He uses up the lives of others to do his work.”

“You exaggerate, Miss Adler. You’re attempting to manipulate me.” In truth, her words worried me more than I was willing to admit.

She laughed. “You seem surprised, Mr Holmes. Did you think he would ever let you go? We time travellers all come and go like ghosts, slipping into one year and out of another, never lingering for long, never living out our lives in one era. I have been following his bidding these ten years. There will always be another task, my dear.”

“And what have you been tasked with, Miss Adler?”

She smiled. “Do not look so stern, Mr Holmes. If you had a revolver in your hand right now, I think you might shoot me. But no fears, sir. I have not been tasked with killing you. That would be a waste indeed. He did not send me. Rather, I came here by my own plan.”

“And how does this plan of yours concern me?” I asked.

“I wish to save a life. Two lives, in fact. And there is not much time. You have already been here too long.”

“Too long? Why does it matter how long I have been here?”

“Because you must avoid the paradox,” she said.

“You mean, I must not return before I have left. That only makes sense—”

“Mr Holmes, pay attention. Your life depends on it.”

She rose and took a cigarette from the Persian slipper. I lit it for her. She inhaled deeply, exhaled and sat cross-legged once more before beginning her instruction.

“Our days are numbered,” she said, “though we do not know what that number is. Call it _physical age._ If you exist in another time, as you have existed in this year, that clock keeps ticking, you keep ageing. You are older now than when you left 2010 and arrived here. Clearly you understand that you must not overlap with a younger self. But listen: nor must you be younger — by the calendar — than your physical body when you return.”

The light went on. The thing that had been nagging at the back of my brain for so many weeks suddenly became clear. “If I return too soon, my body would have to de-age, if only by a few weeks or months,” I said.

She nodded. “I left Berlin after the war and came here, to London, in 1920, when I was seventeen years old. Three years later, in 1923, Moriarty found me and recruited me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I was naive. He sent me to France in the sixteenth century, where lived for eight years, seducing men and stealing manuscripts for him. Extremely boring. If I had gone back to my own time, I could not have returned sooner than 1931 or I would have been younger, by the calendar, than I was physically. This discrepancy is a paradox. Your body has aged some months, Mr Holmes. You cannot return to April 2010. The only way to avoid the paradox is to keep track of time and make sure you have allowed for ageing.”

You and I have talked about this, John, though I hadn’t yet realised all the implications when we speculated. I can see it more clearly now, though.

If I had lived here in Victorian England for fifty years and then decided to return to 2010 to see myself off, there would be two of me — the old and the young. Now I see an additional problem: if I returned from my fifty year holiday in the past a minute _after_ leaving 2010, my body would still have aged, and the thirty-two year old who left 2010 would return a minute later as an eighty-two year old man. Not sure if it’s an actual paradox, but it would be hard to explain to bystanders. If I could, by some means, return as a thirty-two year old after my fifty years, I might live forever, simply by going back and reliving my life in an endless, immortal loop. The laws of time cannot allow that.

Comprehending this, I rephrased it. “So, you’re saying that I must account for the time I’ve been gone.”

She nodded. “If you wish to return to your life, you have to pick up at the same point you left, but adding in the days you’ve been gone,” she said. “That is the math of it. You cannot return early, or late, without creating a paradox. The physical body is constant, across time. There is little room for error.”

“Moriarty understands this?”

She shrugged. “He has avoided this entire century, using proxies like me and you to do his work. I am not sure how clearly he understands the nuances. Perhaps none of us do. There is much about it that we observe, but cannot explain. Moriarty is a philologist, an historian, not a scientist. He parrots the speculation of others.”

“Have you ever returned to Berlin?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. But I intend to. I have been gone for a total of ten years now, so that means it must be no sooner than 1933.”

“You know you’ll be arriving just in time for the Nazis,” I said. “Depending on your politics, that could be unpleasant.”

“I have no politics, Mr Holmes. I can be bedfellows with anyone. This is why Moriarty recruited me.”

“Why will you go to 1933, then? Does he have another assignment for you?”

“No. He will not know. I would like to kill him before I go there, though.”

“But why are you here?” I asked. “If he is in 2010—”

“He knows you are not loyal, sees that you are a danger to him. He chose you because he considers you his equal, intellectually. That is why he tested you in 2010. He sent you back, intending for you to accomplish certain tasks, trusting that you would feel the thrill of it, as he does. Perhaps he believes you lack morals, as he does, and will not be able to resist the _game_ , as he calls it. But whether you will do those things or not, something has already been altered in the future that is thwarting his plan.”

At once, I thought of you, John, and Moran’s threat to kill you.

“What about Watson?” I asked.

“Moriarty sees him as the problem.” She pressed her lips together as if uncertain whether she should say more. “I left at the end of summer, 2010. Your friend made his appearance at the end of January, I believe. I do not know what Moriarty’s plans for you are, but he had already killed Watson when I left.”

I was too stunned to speak. My reason went dark, and I might have blacked out for a moment. When I came to myself, I was on the floor and she was kneeling beside me. “Mr Holmes, at this moment it is still 1882. Your friend’s death hasn’t happened yet. That is why I came here, to tell you this and to help you return.”

I sat up. “How is Watson a threat? What is he doing in 2010?”

_How did I not think of this before, John? You must have met me there — an earlier version of me that hadn’t yet gone to 1881. But you must also have made sure I left on April the first, or I would not be here now. You are waiting for me…_

“Your Watson knew about Moriarty,” she said. “You must have told him in 1882 before he left. Perhaps he shared what he knew with someone in 2010, someone in a position to do something about it.”

I thought of Mycroft. And Lestrade. “When?” I asked. “When does he kill Watson? Where?”

“August the fifteenth, at the portal. But there is still time for you to return before it happens. How long have you been here?”

I closed my eyes and mentally flipped through the calendar. “One hundred thirty-four days. Obviously, I cannot return in April. If I leave tonight, I could return on 12 August, but no sooner.”

She nodded. “You have three days. If you stay here longer, you will be too late. That is why you must come with me to the portal. At once.”

I stood and started pacing, running my hands through my hair until it was in disarray. “But won’t Moriarty know how many days I’ve been here and how soon I can return? Won’t he just kill him sooner? What if it’s already too late?”

“From 2010, he only knows what Moran has communicated to him, and any changes he can observe. One can communicate through writing from the past to the future, but not vice versa. I do not know what Moran has written to him. This is why we must kill Moran before he figures out what we are up to. I know where he leaves his messages and will destroy them after he is dead. Moriarty must not know I am here, making waves. In the future I saw, you obviously do not make it back in time. But that was before I intervened. You now know the future and can change it. I cannot go there and prevent it, because I was there already. But you can save him.”

“But can’t Moriarty just travel to the future and see that I have prevented it?”

“He can’t go back and change it. If he tries, he will overlap and cause a paradox. Besides, he does not do much traveling himself these days. I think he overdid it when he first learned how. Now there are too many potential paradoxes, too many years where he has spent time. That is why he has proxies, like you and me. A few of them are in the future, but they cannot communicate with him, in the past. He relies on those of us who are in the past to leave him messages. This is the weakness of his plan.” She made an impatient noise. “There is no time, Mr Holmes. Your doctor’s life is at stake. You must believe me.”

“Why do you tell me this? Why do you say you want to kill him?”

She regarded me evenly, her eyes murderous. “Because he killed someone I loved. He knew that I could not return and prevent it.”

“But I can,” I said. Suddenly it all made sense. “You want me to prevent him from killing the man you loved, and then you will help me prevent him from killing Watson.”

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes were shining. A tear ran down her cheek when she blinked. “Only it wasn’t a man. It was Katja.”

I nodded. “We will need a very good plan. The timing will be critical.”

“We must work quickly,” she said. “Your time here puts him in danger.”

John, be safe. I am coming.

Your Sherlock

 

Tuesday, 28 February 1882

My dear John,

I fear that these will be my last words to you. Irene has promised to put this letter with the others, in the box. I am not certain that you’ll read them, given that what I am about to do may change everything. I dare not take time to write much. Every minute is precious to me now, and all I can think of is preventing your death. I must be brief. I will tell you all I know so that you can take precautions against Moriarty.

Irene assisted me in stealing the device last night after the museum closed. She examined it and said it looks to be in good order.

We planned out our moves. I would go to 1923 and save Katja. Then, on to 2010.

All at once, I realised the flaw in our plan. 

“Why did you agree to help Moriarty?” I asked.

“Because he killed Katja. He promised that I could go back and prevent it if I helped him. But that was before I knew it would be impossible. By the time I understood—”

“But if I go to 1923 and save Katja, I will change your past,” I said. “You will have no reason to give in to Moriarty’s demands and become his agent. My actions will remove your motivation for doing so. You will not come to my flat in 1882 and warn me about Watson’s death, which means that I will not be able to prevent it.”

She had the gall to smile at me. “Very good, Holmes. You have seen the dilemma. I cannot prevent either death, and you cannot prevent both. And do not think of killing Moriarty when you meet him in 1923. If you do, he will not send you from 2010. You will never meet your lover.”

“I’ll bring Katja here, to 1882,” I said.

She shrugged. “You do not have enough time to do that. Watson will die.”

“Then I must save John first. I can save Katja afterwards, bring her here to you.”

“Do you think me a fool?” she said. “If you save Watson first, how do I know that you will then save Katja for me? Once you have what you want, why would you do this for me?”

“Logically, there must be a way to accomplish both things without creating a paradox,” I said. _All the time in the world._ I was having trouble thinking, fear clouding my brain and making me slow. I reminded myself: _neither thing has happened yet, in 1882_. _It’s just a logic problem: a man with a boat, a fox, a goose, and a bag of grain. The boat can only hold two. The fox will eat the goose, the goose will eat the grain…_

“I will not send you to 2010 until you have saved Katja,” she said, holding the device.

I scoffed. “You are not in a position to object. I can simply refuse to go at all.”

Drawing her gun, she said, “I believe I _am_ in that position, and I _do_ object. Finish what you want to say to your lover. Then we go to Bedlam.”

 

My dear John,

The time is up and I must leave.

I will never forget your kindness to me when I was in Bedlam, how you got me out of that hell hole where I might still be rotting, how you took me in, and how you loved me. My gratitude and love for you are immeasurable and unending.

I promised you that we would always find one another. Perhaps I was wrong, but I will never stop looking for you.

I have a plan. I do not know if it will work, but there is no time to experiment. I must trust that I have reasoned correctly.

If I should fail, I am sorry, my love. You trusted me, and I have disappointed you. I will never forget you, never stop loving you.

Please believe that I will ever be

Your Sherlock


	20. Flux

Friday, 13 August 2010 / John H Watson

After I found Sherlock’s letters, I felt both relief and apprehension. I asked Mycroft to search death records to see if Sherlock had indeed died. Fortunately, he found nothing, but the absence of evidence no longer seemed like something I could rely on. Time was in flux, its stream running back on itself, overflowing its banks.

The only thing that could have convinced me that Sherlock was alive was his warm body in my arms.

I wondered if I had tipped my hand by contacting Moriarty, but I did not regret knowing more about the man who was my enemy. I am a man of action, but I know when it is best to practice patience. I watched for my opportunity.

 

Walking home from the pub one evening, I noticed a car following me. _Mycroft,_ I thought at first. I paused for a moment, expecting the window to slide down and to hear his voice.

It wasn’t the usual black limo, I noted. I walked faster.

I pulled my key out of my pocket as I approached the door, aiming to slide it right into the lock, open the door, and close it before anyone could get a foot inside.

As I fumbled with the key, I felt something sting my neck. My hand went up to discover what had happened and my fingers touched something stuck there. I pulled it out: a red dart. I thought of blowdart guns, paralytics, and…

 

I awakened to an argument. Two voices I recognised.

A woman speaking. “I have assisted you for nearly ten years. I only demand what you promised me.” _Irene Adler._

A man’s voice, sing-song, Irish accent. “She is dead, my dear. Forget about her. You can do much better.”

The sing-song voice was familiar. It sent a shiver through me, like remembering when I fell through the ice as a child, plunging through the darkness, thinking _this is dying._

“I don’t want _better_. I want my Katja. You promised.”

High-pitched giggle. “What ever made you think I would keep a promise? That a little cunt like you was worthy of my promise?”

“Damn you, Moriarty! I have done what you asked me to do. Have you no sense of decency?”

“Decency? I’m not sure that word is applicable to your situation. You and another woman, doing things you lack the parts for. I’m not even sure how that works. You, whoring yourself out to other men in exchange for empty promises.”

“I have done everything you asked — seduced all the men you asked me to seduce, obtained the documents you wanted, killed the people who opposed you—”

“Darling,” the posh voice again. “You’ve been a good agent. But I’m not ready to turn you loose. You still have things to do for me.”

“Such as?”

There was no reply to this question. I lay silent, knowing that I was a bargaining chip. That Holmes was another bargaining chip. That either Irene Adler or James Moriarty would win this argument, and we would live, or we would die. I was not sure either of them would save us both, but decided that Irene at least seemed to have emotions. She might be persuaded to help me.

“Enough,” Moriarty said. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic. Give it up. For god’s sake, woman…”

I heard a door closing.

There was a long silence, and I wondered who had left and who remained.

* * *

Tuesday, 28 February 1882 / Sherlock Holmes

We arrived at the portal. I stood once more in the alley behind the Dog and Duck. This time, however, I was not woozy.

Perhaps it was the gun that cleared all the confusion from my mind. It was amazing how focused I became when I felt the metal pressed against my temple.

“Wait,” I said. “I think I know how —”

At that moment, we caught sight of Moran. Large, angry, and armed, he was coming towards us rather quickly. Irene fired first, hitting him in the left shoulder, missing his heart by a mile. He was thrown back by the force of the shot, but then, like a zombie, righted himself and kept moving towards us, transferring his gun to his right hand as blood began to soak through his clothing. He returned fire. Irene cried out and dropped her gun, her hand bloody.

In motion, I am not a great marksman. With proper time to aim and steady my hand, I hit my target more often than not. I drew a breath in the seconds that it took him to regroup and resume his approach. _Dear God,_ I thought, taking aim. I fired.

He dropped, a hole in his forehead oozing blood.

All of this took perhaps thirty seconds.

I took off my scarf and wrapped Irene’s hand. “You need a doctor,” I said.

“Don’t be a fool,” she replied, kneeling beside the device. She checked the settings. “It’s just a graze. 20 November, 1923. You should materialise here several hours before she is murdered. Here is the address where you must go.” She handed me a piece of paper. “Take her and leave at once. Bring her back here and I will send you on your way to 2010. If you hurry—”

“I have a better idea,” I said. “I just need to ask you two questions.”

* * *

Thursday, 1 November 1923 / Sherlock Holmes

By the time I reached the flat where Irene and Katja lived, my frayed patience was about to give way. It was late afternoon, the sun low in the sky. Every moment I was in 1923 was a moment less to rescue John. But I could not afford for Irene to see me. If she did, and if she understood what I was up to, she might never come to 1882 and warn me about John’s death. I had to make Katja disappear in such a way that Irene would think she had been killed.

I thought about my brain. All the things stored in my Mind Palace were something physical, chemical. There is no ghost in the machine, no soul that carries my essence. I am the neurons that transmit my thoughts and keep my memories. I imagine my brain as a physical place, a palace with rooms full of memories, but the reality is banal. I am a bundle of chemical reactions. What I feel and remember are coded in my brain.

If Irene should never make her journey to 1882, never show up in my sitting room at Baker Street, crossing her legs and smoking my cigarettes, would I still remember these things?

What she said about our physical bodies ageing made me realise that, just as I could not shed the months and years I age while time traveling, I cannot shed my memories either — because they are physically a part of my body.

I will never forget John. Even if the past months that I have lived should be erased by events that I cannot prevent, even if Moriarty, in some future loop of time, should decide not to send me back to 1881 — I will not forget any of the things that have happened.

Perhaps I would dismiss them as a dream. But if I tell myself now that they are real, I hope I will not forget them. I will always have met John, always have loved him, even if everything goes spectacularly bad and the past months are erased from history.

That was my theory; I did not intend to test it. I could not risk Irene seeing me and knowing that Katja had not been killed. I was positive that she would not come to warn me if she lost her motivation to save her lover. That she cared so much for Katja was commendable. But I was quite sure she cared nothing about me. She would abandon me once she had what she wanted.

I saw Irene — her younger self — leave the flat. As soon as she was out of sight, I went to the door and knocked.

An older woman answered. I spoke to her, explaining that I had urgent news for the Miss Katja, babbling about how I was a cousin… eventually she stopped staring at me and hollered up the stairs.

A door opened somewhere above me and I heard a woman’s voice. “Who’s there?”

I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “I beg your pardon,” I panted.

Katja was as blond as Irene was dark, as petite as Irene was voluptuous. Barely five feet tall, she looked up at me with confidence.

“You do not know me,” I began, “and you may find it hard to believe what I am going to tell you.” I wasn’t sure truth was the best strategy, but hadn’t time to carry out an elaborate deception. How many ways are there to convince a young woman to go somewhere with a strange man? I would appear a madman to her in any case. If all else failed, I could use the chloroform Irene had provided me with.

She studied me; I realised that my clothing would seem out of style to her. “Perhaps we can start with names,” she said. She had a slight accent I could not identify. Austrian, perhaps.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

She nodded. “Katherine Keller. What message do you bring?”

“Someone will make an attempt on your life tomorrow. I am to bring you to a safe place.”

“Moriarty has sent you,” she said.

“No, not — wait, you know the man?”

“I do. He is a patron of the club where we perform.” Her smile was suggestive, and I thought I could guess what type of performers two attractive young ladies might be.

“Then you understand how dangerous he is.”

She shrugged. “On your way, Mr Holmes. I can handle Mr Moriarty.”

“You don’t understand. You must come with me.” I was starting to panic, I realised. Generally I have control over my emotions, but I felt the clock ticking, each second closing in on John’s death in 2010. “Please,” I said. “Please.”

She took my hand and drew me into the flat. “You’re not well, sir. You must sit.”

I found myself sitting in a small kitchen. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. “Tea will set you right,” she said. “I would offer you some whisky, but we do not keep any.”

“Miss Keller, you must believe me. I know I sound like a madman, but I have come to save you.”

The kettle was starting to boil. She spooned some tea into the pot. “You English are obsessive about tea, but I do not warm the pot first. Practically speaking, it makes no difference.” She set a cup in front of me. “Tea is not religion.”

“Moriarty is planning to kill you. Let me take you to safety. ”

“Three minutes,” she said, pouring boiling water into the pot. “Is there any time when a person could be safe from James Moriarty?”

“You know — how I have travelled here? Then you must come with me.”

She nodded. The clock ticked. Three minutes passed.

“Do not be afraid, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, pouring the tea into my cup. “Do you take sugar in your tea?”

“Yes, please.” Just holding the cup actually seemed to calm me. I closed my eyes, inhaling the steam.

“He will not kill me,” she said. “And you must be on your way soon.”

“You refuse to come with me,” I said. “But Irene — she expects me to—”

“Drink your tea. You must steady your nerves, sir.” She patted my shoulder. “I am not the piece of the puzzle you can solve. You must save John Watson.”

With shaking hands, I set my cup into the saucer. “How do you know—”

“We will meet again,” she said. “Calm yourself. Go save John.”

* * *

Saturday, 14 September 2010 / John H Watson

When I awoke for the second time, Irene was looking at me. I sat up, glad to discover that I was not bound.

“You should have let me seduce you,” she said. “If he thought I had you under control, he might let you live. But now you will die. And that gun you have strapped to your ankle will not save you.”

Of course. Moriarty had her search me. “Then why is it still strapped to my ankle?”

She shrugged. “A soldier should not die without a fighting chance.”

“You have a sense of honour, Miss Adler. Will you help me save Sherlock Holmes?”

“I cannot help you now. Moriarty knows I am not loyal.”

“What have you told him?”

“I don’t have to tell him anything. He knows that you have talked to Scotland Yard and that annoying twat, Mycroft Holmes.”

“They already knew about Moriarty. They were following him before Sherlock left.”

“Of course they were.” She shook her head. “You should not be here. That irks him, that somehow you were sent by Holmes.”

“I didn’t come here to bring about his downfall,” I said. “I have not been working towards that end.”

“But he believes that you will, nonetheless. So he will bring Sherlock back in time to see you die.”

“How do you know this?”

“It is his method of persuasion. He will kill you, and then promise Sherlock that if he cooperates, he will allow him to go back and save you.”

“Sherlock won’t believe him. He understands about the paradox.”

“And you’ll still be dead. Moriarty will promise to send someone else to do it.”

“He will send you.” I understood then what Irene’s role was to be. “He will send you back to Sherlock in 1882. You will promise to save me if he — what will you force him to do in return for my life?”

She laughed. “You’re smarter than you look.”


	21. Ex Machina

Thursday, 1 November 1923 / Sherlock Holmes

I returned to the portal alone. It occurred to me that, in my rush to figure out how to get to 1923, I had overlooked something quite important, namely, how to get out of 1923.

I was standing in the alley behind the Duck and Dog, which was still serving pints. Across the street, Bethlehem Royal Hospital was still home of the insane. In seven years, it would be relocated to the suburbs, the building converted into the Imperial War Museum six years later. 

None of these historical facts could help me at that moment, however. I needed a time machine, and the only one I knew of might be in the British Museum, which would be closed at this hour. Even if I could reach the museum, break in, and return to the portal without being arrested, I might still be too late.

Irene had not told me where to find the device, though she undoubtedly knew. She did not seem like the kind of person who would forget something so important. I cursed myself for not remembering this crucial detail. In the confusion of Moran’s appearance, the gun fight, and Irene’s injury, I had not clearly thought out my task. Eighty-seven years in the future, John might die because of my lapse.

Katja must know where to find it, I realised, but since I had failed to convince her that she required rescuing, I was stuck. She was miles away and mobile phones had not yet been invented.

The travel was catching up with me; I could barely think.

_Focus._ The devices would be in places that don’t change, like museums, churches… There was a cathedral at the crossroad — St George’s…

“Help you?”

I looked up from the ground, where I’d collapsed in a heap. A man stood at the back door of the pub, wiping a glass. He was nearly as tall as me, heavily built, shirt sleeves rolled up, wearing a dirty apron. Obviously, the pub owner.

“I’m… I’m…” I stood unsteadily, trying to think of what sort of help might actually be helpful. I was certain that I looked a wreck with my antique clothing and general state of disarray. At this rate, I was likely to end my travels back in Bedlam.

He slung the dishrag over his shoulder. Appearing to reach some conclusion, he extended a hand towards me.

“I haven’t escaped from the hospital,” I said. “Don’t call the men in the white coats.” Saying this, of course, would not help. People who escape from hospitals always say they are sane. They always ask you not to call the white coat fellows. I did not want to go among mad people, but here I was, in an alley, looking for a time machine. _We’re all mad here_.

“You need a drink,” he observed, pulling me to my feet.

I blinked at him. “Who… who are you?”

“Right now, it looks like I’m the Deus Ex Machina.” He chuckled. “Name’s Tom.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “Deus Ex Machina?”

“You know. The bloke who suddenly appears out of nowhere and saves a hopeless situation.” He grinned at me.

“I know what a Deus Ex Machina is,” I huffed. “Unfortunately, this is not a poorly written play whose conclusion relies on a contrived plot device. I don’t expect you have a time travel device on you.”

He did not seem surprised at my request, which meant that he was certainly planning to call the white coat men. Running a tavern in this location, he might see a lot of escaped patients.

“I’m the Guardian,” he said.

“Guardian?” Clearly, he was not referring to the newspaper. “Of what are you the Guardian?”

“Of the Portal. Come on inside and have a drink while I get the device set up for you.”

Resigned and somewhat incredulous, I followed him into the pub and sat on a stool. The hour was late and there were few patrons. Two pints, one for me, and one for himself.

“Alcohol counteracts the effects.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“The effects of time travel. The pub. That’s why it’s here. So, you coming or going?”

I raised my glass and took a swallow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Which direction are you traveling?”

“I’m… heading to the future.”

He gestured to my clothing. “You just decided to stop off here? Or did you miscalculate?”

“I had an errand here, from 1882. My final destination is 2010.” Feeling my mind clear a bit, I took another swallow. “I never saw the Guardian in 1882. Or in 1881, when I first arrived.”

“It’s sort of a new thing.”

“Well, there wasn’t anyone in 2010 either.”

He shrugged. “It’s hard finding good help. Always quitting without giving notice.”

“Do you work for Moriarty?”

He laughed. “No. Not that fucker.” He unlocked a cabinet and removed the device. “Let’s get your coordinates.”

“September the fifteenth, 2010,” I said. “I need to be at the portal before midnight.”

He fiddled with the dials. “Right-o. You know there’s a swimming pool here in 2010.”

“I do. That’s where I departed from. Moriarty sent me back.”

“It’s hard to predict exactly where you’ll materialise,” he said. “Can you swim?”

“I can,” I replied, recalling summers in Brighton and the swimming lessons Mummy forced me to take. “You don’t sound like a native. Where did you come from?”

“The future. Been here for a while. Didn’t see you arrive, though. I must’ve been in the loo or something. Another pint?”

“No, thank you. My head is clear now. I need to save John Watson.”

He nodded. “Well, I suppose you’ll be on your way, then.”

“This seems like a rather improbable coincidence,” I said. “You being here, just when I needed a device. Tell me — are you here because of something that happens in the future?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” he said. “Let’s just say, it’s not an accident that you’re here and so am I.”

I laughed. “So you really are the Deus Ex Machina.”

He grinned. “Put your hand on the device when you’re ready. Happy landings.”

The last thing I saw was his wink.

 

Sunday 15 August 2010 / John H Watson

Irene was strapping a vest on me. “What’s this?” I asked. It appeared to be filled with packages of something heavy. For a moment I wondered if they planned to drown me in the swimming pool.

“Explosives,” she said, tightening the straps around me. “Sherlock will see that we intend to kill you and do what we ask.”

At his name, my pulse began to pound. “Is Sherlock here?” _He will know what to do,_ I thought. _He always knows_.

“He’s on his way,” said Moriarty. He handed something small to Irene. “Fix this in his ear, love.”

“What is that for?” I asked.

“There will be snipers focused on you, John,” he said as Irene fitted the small device into my ear. “You will say exactly what I tell you to say. If you vary from the script, the sniper fires a bullet into you and you become a bomb.” He smiled. “You did take his gun, didn’t you, Irene? We can’t have him deciding to sacrifice himself before Sherlock arrives.”

She was putting a parka on me, doing up the front panel. She paused for a second, and I deduced that she hadn’t anticipated his question. “I have it.” She handed it to him.

“Good.” He smiled at me. “Ready, John? I’m sure you can’t wait to see Sherlock. And think how surprised he’ll be to see you!”

 

Sunday 15 August 2010 / Sherlock Holmes

I materialised inside the pool building just a few minutes before midnight, several feet away from the pool.

Memories of the night of April the first ghosted through my mind — the shadows, the street lights coming in through high windows, reflecting off the water, the uncanny calm. The quiet, elegantly dressed man with the voice of a psychopath. Had I not been foolish enough to meet Moriarty that night, where would I be now?

And like a phantasm, another vision floated up from somewhere in my Mind Palace. April first. Climbing the stairs to his bedroom, lying beside him, my arms around him. _I’m going out._ We kissed. He said he could not come with me. I already knew. _See you soon_ , I said.

It had not happened, and yet I remembered it. Somewhere in my brain, behind a locked door in my Mind Palace, that memory had waited for me to return to 2010. The door now stood open. I hesitated on the threshold.

_No. He wasn’t here yet. I was alone, living on Montague Street, not in the Baker Street flat. I’d found the flat, but couldn’t pay the rent. I would need a flatmate, I’d decided._ Had I found one? _No_. _Who would want me for a flatmate?_

_John wasn’t here. I didn’t lie beside him or kiss him or say goodbye. I left the flat at half eleven, locking the door…_

_But he was here_. I’d sent him ahead from 1881, and he’d found me here. He’d come to the flat, then Bart’s, where we met. The path lab… Molly was there. _Can I help you?_ He’d shaved off his moustache, cut his hair… He was ill, nearly fainted when he saw me; Molly brought him tea… _A man who owns an antique revolver and one set of clothes…_ Mike Stamford… _Any prospective flatmates yet?_ The flat — we’d gone to look at it… John remembered it, told Mrs Hudson when it was built, said the upper bedroom used to be a lumber room — _because he had been there_. _We’d_ been there, in 1881.

The little gaffs - _not gay… opium tincture… the chip and pin machine… carbonic acid poisoning… Alexander Fleming… the internets…_

He was at my side at Lauriston Gardens, after the woman in pink was killed. I introduced him to Lestrade. _My colleague, Dr Watson._ He shot the cabby—

Dizzy, I sank to my knees. _He couldn’t have shot the cabby. He wasn’t here yet._

Then who shot the cabby?

_I sent him ahead, and he_ was _here, and he saved my life, and I went back to 1881 and met him…_

Caught in a causal loop, I thought. Part of my brain was saying, _this is interesting._ The other part was trying to decide which memory was real. It was as if my brain had performed a sync and was now asking: _Which file do you want to keep?_

John. _My_ John _._

_There is no timeline in which we will not find one another._

I rose to my feet. Moriarty was here, I knew. He wanted me here, and I had come.

“Moriarty,” I called. “I’m ready to play your little game.”

Footsteps, slow, shuffling on the tile floor. I turned. “John!” I cried out.

He was wearing a heavy parka, his face tight and fearful. I took a step towards him. “John, I’m here—”

“I’ll wager… you didn’t expect… this,” he said woodenly. “Stand down, lover. No hugs for Johnny Boy.”

I froze. Something was terribly wrong. “Moriarty! Where are you? Show yourself!”

John spoke again. “What… would you like him… to say, Sherlock? What… have you… been waiting to hear?” He took his hands out of the pockets and separated the front panels of the parka, revealing explosives strapped to his chest. “I want to fuck you, Sherlock. You’re so hot… I’m… about ready… to explode.”

“Stop it,” I said. “Moriarty, if you want me, you have me. Leave John out of this.”

A voice spoke out of the shadows. “How touching.” I heard him begin walking towards us, his expensive shoes echoing on the tiles. “The lovers at long last reunited.” He continued towards John, his eyes on me. “So, here we are again, Sherlock, at the pool where little Carl died. So sad. Just think of how confusing it will be for your friends at Scotland Yard when your dead body turns up here almost six months after your disappearance.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to stop getting in my way. You can be quite useful to me, just not in 2010. I have a notion that I might send you to somewhere interesting next. Maybe the Dark Ages. You do speak Latin, don’t you?”

A red laser point appeared on John’s chest.

“Well, you didn’t think I was going to kill him myself, did you? I really dislike getting my hands dirty.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“If you release John—”

“Now, here’s the thing, Sherlock. If I let him live, you’ll carry on trying to reunite with him. It hurts me to say it, but you love him best, and you’ll never be loyal to me. I understand your devotion to him. He’s sweet, and fairly bright for a pet. He might even figure out a few things himself. But he’s already mucked around in my yard long enough, digging up things that ought to have stayed buried. I’m going to kill him. If you’re good, Sherlock, I might go back and save him later.”

“You’re lying. You know you can’t—”

“Ah, but my associates can. I think you’ve both met Irene.”

Irene Adler stepped out of the shadows.

“Irene, dear girl, has been working her way into my graces for ten years now. She’s been very handy, one of my best proxies. I’ve been thinking about resurrecting her little girl friend, but I might wait a bit. Once she’s started to lose her looks, it will seem much more poignant to reunite them.”

Irene’s face was dark with rage, but she kept quiet.

He shrugged “As for you and John, I’m not sure I have the patience to deal with you. He’s boring, and you’re annoying.”

As he spoke, he stepped in front of John. Without hesitation, my intrepid soldier grabbed him from behind. “Run, Sherlock!”

Moriarty laughed. The red light that had been trained on John disappeared.

“Sherlock!” John cried. “Look out!” The look of horror on his face made me realise what had happened. The laser was now pointed at my forehead.

He released Moriarty, held his hands up in surrender. “Please, don’t,” he said. “Let him live.”

Moriarty was frowning at Irene. “My dear Miss Adler. I thought you were keeping your gun trained on the doctor. You could have at least shot him. Non-fatally, of course. Just enough to redirect his attention and convince him to stop these stupid pranks.”

‘You’re a fool,” she said. “I don’t need you to get Katja back.”

He grabbed her face. “Look at this pretty woman, Sherlock. Such a beauty. A pity to put a hole in that lovely face.” He reached for his gun.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Don’t kill her!”

Moriarty paused. “What? You’re begging me to save her? What are you offering me in return?”

“I’ll go wherever you send me, do whatever tasks you assign.”

John’s face fell. I had promised him that we’d be together. But Irene had helped me, and it wasn’t right to let her die. She was Moriarty’s prisoner, just as I was. We would figure out how to escape from him later.

John nodded at me, understanding my decision. As we gazed at one another, just a few arm’s lengths away from touching, I saw his expression change. He turned to stare at Moriarty.

The red laser was focused on Moriarty’s forehead. He could not see it, of course. I glanced at Irene; her face was blank.

“You two love birds,” he said fondly. “So romantic. I’m tempted—”

He did not finish his sentence. One bullet was all it took. He fell, a hole in his forehead.

We scarcely breathed for a moment. Then I started ripping the vest off of John.

“The sniper,” Irene said. “Who is it?”

“Oh, God,” breathed John. “We need to get out of here.”

I pulled the last of the explosives from him, shredding his shirt. “Come on!”

As we sprinted towards the door, a small figure stepped out of the darkness, a gun held at her side.

John gave a cry of joy. “Mary!”

Irene sank to her knees, weeping. “Katja,” she whispered.

I simply stared. “So… is it Mary… or Katja?”

The petite blond woman smiled up at me. “It’s both.”


	22. Where We Belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter will wrap up all the plot twists and paradoxes and loose ends.   
> If not, consider that we must have fallen into a causal loop...

Monday, 16 August 2010 / John H Watson

We lay in the bed wrapped around each other until almost noon, finally just breathing, acclimating ourselves to each other. It had been months.

“Do you remember everything?” I asked. “When I met you in January, you didn’t know me.”

“I do remember now,” he said at once. “It’s odd though. I remember the days I spent in 1881 and 1882, but I also remember you showing up at the path lab and not knowing who you were. I remember living here with you, in 2010, and I remember leaving and arriving in 1881. It’s all seamless now, all my memories knitted together. I wasn’t sure how that would work, coming back, what I would remember.”

I smiled. “It was strange, having you for those few weeks until April first, knowing that you didn’t remember our time in the past, meeting at Bedlam, or any of the things we did.”

He chuckled. “I’m a bit disappointed that you didn’t try to seduce me.”

I tightened my grip on him. “I wasn’t sure you would still… want me.”

His kiss answered my deepest doubts. “Was I an arse?” he asked, pulling away suddenly. “Did I treat you badly when you showed up at the lab? I seem to remember being a bit of an arse.”

“No, you were simply… you. But it was strange, moving into the flat with you again, having you deduce everything about me. Only this time, you couldn’t quite piece it together. Not that first day.” I smiled, remembering his conjectures.

Running his hands over my backside, he chuckled. “I didn’t really think you were a refugee from a cult, you know.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought… I couldn’t quite figure out why, but I felt like I knew you. You were familiar to me. I kept wanting to… touch you. But I was afraid if I did, you would move out.”

I nodded. “The night you left, I thought you had figured it out. But I was afraid to say anything, in case I changed what happened and we never met.” I sighed. “It’s been very hard, not knowing if you would ever come back to me.”

He began kissing his way down my chest. “I’m sorry, love. It’s my fault for not thinking it through properly. If I’d set the machine correctly the first time, none of this might have happened. I’m glad you found the letters. I was afraid you might not, and that you’d never know what happened if I…” He paused, unable to say what we both were thinking.

“It took me a while to figure out about the box,” I said. “I felt quite the idiot when I thought of it. I’d been so worried about you being lost in a paradox. It was a relief to read what had actually happened.”

“Writing those letters kept me sane,” he said. “I worried so much about you, that Moriarty would kill you before I got here.”

I sniffed. “I wasn’t afraid of him. As an army doctor, I could have taken down that pasty philologist without breaking a sweat. I could have broken every bone in his body — while naming them. I am what one might refer to as a _bad ass._ ”

“My god, John,” Sherlock said, lifting his head, his eyes wide. “Do you have any idea how turned on I am right now?”

I gave him a coy smile. “Perhaps you could show me.”

 

Monday, 16 August 2010 / Sherlock Holmes

After I showed my doctor how much he meant to me, we lay in bed until we heard someone knocking on the door.

“You have visitors, boys!” Mrs Hudson called.

We quickly donned trousers and dressing gowns, performed the minimal required ablutions. In the sitting room, we found Irene Adler and Katja Keller, aka Mary Katherine Morstan.

“Sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” Mary/Katja said, smiling at our disarray. “We wanted to take leave of you properly.”

“You’re leaving?” John said. “Why?”

The women exchanged smiles. “You will see us again,” Irene said. “We’re going to Katja’s era for a bit, but will eventually return to your time.”

“You’re from the future?” I frowned at Katja/Mary, trying to figure out her stake in what had transpired. “You were following Moriarty.”

She nodded. “In my own time, I am a member of an elite group. Chronological archaeologists, you might call us. Originally, we were tasked with saving lost pieces of history. A colleague of mine had the misfortune to run into James Moriarty, who killed him. Ever since, I have been tracking him, trying to undo his mischief.” She shook her head. “Capital punishment is not common in my time, but where he was concerned, it became the only solution.”

“You came here to warn me,” John said. “I knew you were afraid, but I didn’t suspect — I thought you were working for him.”

She shook her head. “No. He tried to kill me in 1923, but I was able to escape. I was afraid for Irene. She thought me dead, and unfortunately, I had to let her believe this. It was a very hard choice for me. I came to 2010 to find her and make sure she was all right. And to save you, Dr Watson.”

Irene was tearful. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t want John to die—” She squeezed Katja’s hand. “You might have done the same — for him.” She nodded at John. “I wanted to kill Moriarty.”

“Well,” I said. “All’s well that ends well. John is alive. Katja is alive. And we will not expect to hear from him again, I hope. I assume that once dead, he cannot be resurrected.”

“That is so,” said Katja. “His timeline is ended. My mission is accomplished. No ghosts from the past.”

“What will you do in the… er… future?” John asked. “Are there others like Moriarty, who are trying to change history?”

“Not like him, no.” Katja smiled. “But there are some difficulties. We have spoken to Mycroft Holmes. I think that he may enlighten you.”

I shook my head. “I suppose it was inevitable that my brother would become involved in this.”

Katja smiled. “While we are gone, Doctor, it might be helpful if you kept a blog. This will allow us to monitor what is happening in 2010.”

“Sherlock has a blog,” John said.

Irene laughed. “Nobody reads Sherlock’s blog.”

The women were looking at one another now, their eyes full of the same emotion that I felt when I looked at John, the same emotion I saw mirrored in his eyes.

“Until we meet again,” I said.

 

My brother arrived at tea time. He looked as usual — smug and self-possessed. John had prepared me, telling me of how lovely he had been in my absence, and had suggested that thanks were due.

“It might give him a heart attack if I do that,” I objected. “But if you wish it…”

“He gave me an illegal gun,” John said. “For protection. He comforted me when you left for 1881. I don’t know how I would have managed if he had not cared for me. He gave me hope, Sherlock.”

“Very well,” I said, steeling myself for the conversation.

“Welcome back, brother,” Mycroft said, giving me a slight bow and a reserved smile. “I have awaited your return with some… concern. I am pleased to see that you and Doctor Watson have reunited.”

“Indeed,” I replied. “I understand that it is through your… ministrations… that Doctor Watson was able to weather the events of these past months. I wish to express my gratitude for your involvement.”

“Not necessary,” Mycroft replied. “It was my pleasure.”

Gratitude having been duly expressed, we moved on.

John was smiling. “You two. So very… Victorian.”

“Well,” said Mycroft, clearing his throat.

“Indeed,” I said, attempting to compose myself. “Indeed.”

“I have some business with you both,” Mycroft continued. “Though most grateful for the successful conclusion of these events, her majesty’s government must take measures against further abuse of time travel.”

“Moriarty’s dead,” said John. “Do you mean that others are conducting similar intrigues?”

“I mean,” he said, “that though Moriarty is no longer a threat, his influence continues to produce problems for us. Earlier today, we intercepted a group migrating from the fourteenth century. They seemed to be aware of… certain aspects of our current government policies — or, rather, lack of policies on immigration.”

“Immigration?” I said. “Do you mean that—”

He nodded. “Yes. People are coming here, seeing 2010 as a place where refugees are welcome. They may eventually overwhelm our immigration system. We are currently considering policies.”

“You’re serious,” I said.

“Indeed I am.” Mycroft regarded John. “I am going to suggest that you and my brother legally establish yourselves so that you are not deported, should it come to that.”

“Deported!” John cried. “Are you saying that I might be sent back to 1882?”

Mycroft sighed. “We are not there. Not yet. But if immigrants begin to tax our resources, questions may be raised. Already, the establishment of a ministry has been suggested — to control chronological immigration.”

“Perhaps we could also establish a use for exportation,” I said. “Just as Australia became a destination for criminals, perhaps we could send those who violate laws to a penal colony in another century. I could think of appropriate destinations for criminals of different stripes.”

John was frowning. “Perhaps the future has a way to rehabilitate these unfortunates.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft intercepted neatly. “But government is always more concerned with costs that with results. While it might serve justice to send murderers to the bloodiest centuries of western history, I am not sure we can afford to guard our borders, so to speak, with sufficient diligence.”

“The devices must be accounted for,” I said.

“And the portals catalogued,” added John.

Mycroft smiled. “I was hoping you both would volunteer.” He leaned closer to John. I heard him whisper, “How’s that romance novel coming along?”

John grinned. “You mean _Ormond Sacker and the Adventures of the Undead Lover_? Well underway. I’ve had to do some research on vampires, however. I didn’t realise what a fad they had become since Bram Stoker. He hadn’t yet written _Dracula_ , you know, when I was last in London, so I read it only recently. Quite sexy doings,” he said. “My vampires are delightfully queer.”

Mycroft smiled. “Excellent.”

 

Tuesday, 17 August 2010 / John H Watson

In the darkness of our bedroom, Sherlock lay curled around me.

“Something is troubling you,” I murmured. 

“Yes, John. Something I can’t explain.”

“What is it?”

He turned me over and looked into my face. “You must have been here before. That’s the only way I can explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“How you shot the cabby.”

“I followed you. I’d overheard your conversation. My hearing is quite acute, you know. I haven’t spent my life with loud music plugged into my ears. If I had a fortune, I would invest it all in hearing aids, I think—”

“I’ll call my broker tomorrow,” he said. “What I mean is this. There was the first time I left 2010, when you were not here. Someone shot the cabby, but I never knew who. The police had no leads and finally just threw up their hands and declared it a cold case. Then the second time, when you were here, I figured out that you fired the shot. With that antique of yours. And I remember now, the first time, how the police were stumped to find an antique bullet in a man’s chest in 2010. But you weren’t here then—”

“I admit that I shot him. No mystery there.”

He huffed in exasperation. “But it happened twice, and you weren’t… Well, obviously, it could only happen once. But you would have known me then, when we met in 1881, because that was after the cabby was shot.”

“In 2010,” I said. “So we met before I shot him.”

“But I wouldn’t have lived if you hadn’t shot him. And you hadn’t met me yet, so what were you doing in 2010?”

I had no answer for this, and was sure that he was not going to be able to let go of it until he figured it out. I yawned and closed my eyes.

“A loop,” he said at last. “We’ve created a causal loop. You saved my life, which enabled me to go back in time and find you, bring you to the present so you could save my life, so I could go back and bring you here—”

“We’re out of the loop now, aren’t we? You’re alive, your trip to Victorian England is over, and we’re both here.”

“I wonder how many times we went around that loop,” he muttered. “Could it be infinity? It’s a paradox — but here we are. Is this an alternate reality? Is another me dead in a 2010 where you didn’t save me? Is another you still in 1882, without me? How are we here, together, when—”

“Don’t care,” I said. “Whether I came to save you, or you came to find me, it doesn’t matter. Moriarty is dead. End of story. Let's begin a new chapter.”

“We can never go back, Watson,” he said. “There is no telling what might happen to us.”

“I am content to stay here. There is nothing in 1882 that I miss.”

“Really? You’re content here, with me?”

“Everything I could possibly miss is right here.” I wrapped my arms more tightly around him. “And you’re not going anywhere.”

“There is one place I need to go,” he said. “You’ll need to come with me, however.”

“Need to go… where?”

“I promised to bring you here, John. There was another promise implied in that one which I didn’t dare say at the time. Perhaps it’s too soon.”

“Sherlock.” I sat up. “You said that in 2010 men might marry. Is that what you’re asking me?”

“I am. Civil partnership is what it’s called. Mycroft says it’s a good idea, in case time immigration becomes an issue. If the idea is still too foreign to you—”

“Foreign? You once called me a man ahead of my time. I think that I have, finally, found a time where I belong. And a person who belongs here with me. I will marry you.”

He smiled. “You make me very happy, John. I never thought of myself as the marrying type, but I want you to be my husband.”

“Dear husband,” I said. “Let us never be parted.”

 

Saturday, 29 January 2011 / John H Watson

We were married this day in a small ceremony attended by our closest friends. Sherlock’s parents and brothers, as well as extended family, were present, as were Lestrade and his crew. I had located a few of my brother’s descendants who also attended. Sherlock and I wore Victorian dress clothing, spoke the traditional vows, and had a fine dinner provided by a friend of Sherlock’s named Angelo. I have never felt such happiness in my life. It was pure joy to see our friends toast our future happiness.

Afterwards, we retreated to a hotel suite (gift of Mycroft) so ostentatious that I thought it must be a dream. I felt as if I had awakened in the Arabian Nights, expecting to see slaves fanning us with ostrich plumes and fountains pouring champagne into crystal glasses.

In the enormous bed with satin sheets and impossibly plush comforters, Sherlock settled his head on my chest. I was perfectly content, half asleep, when he said, “You know, it’s odd.”

“What’s odd, love?”

“There are things here that I didn’t remember.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, I didn’t remember having an older brother named Sherrinford.”

“Hmm. You told me about Mycroft. Don’t recall you mentioning another brother, so I just figured you didn’t get along with Sherry.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Oh, I like him. He invited me to dinner one night while you were missing. His husband is rather a behemoth. Don’t you like them?”

“I do. I just didn’t remember. Well, now I do, but when they came through the reception line, I didn’t have a clue.”

“So, something must have changed. Either you had a brother before whom you’d never met or heard of, or—”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m not sure it’s worth trying to unravel what happened. Perhaps things are always changing and time traveling just makes me more aware of it.”

“You mean that now you can remember what didn’t happen.”

“Not exactly remember. It’s more like deja vu, in reverse. Instead of the feeling that I’ve met someone before, it’s a feeling that I haven’t met someone I ought to know. Or I feel like something happened, but it didn’t.”

“Perhaps I would experience the same thing, if I traveled back,” I said.

“Do you want to?”

“Not at all.”

He fell silent, and for a while I stroked his hair.

“You’re not sleepy,” he deduced. “You’re excited about tomorrow.”

“My first time in an airplane — why wouldn’t I be? To imagine being a mile above the earth—”

“Six miles. Approximately.”

“I watched a You Tube video of people skydiving. Can we do that?”

“Not tomorrow. They won’t let you jump out of a passenger jet. But we could do it some other time.”

“I’d like that.”

I felt him smiling. “You know, you haven’t even asked where we’re going.”

“We’re going somewhere? I thought we were just taking a ride in an airplane.”

“The honeymoon, John. That’s what Lestrade was talking about. A sex holiday, usually somewhere warm. Beaches where people will serve you drinks with tiny umbrellas.”

“Oh. A sex holiday. Tiny umbrellas. Where are we going?”

“To Greece.”

I sat up. “Sherlock! We’re going to Greece? I’ll get to see the Acropolis and the Delphic Oracle?”

“Are you pleased?”

“Oh! I can’t believe — I’m going to see the place where my story took place! I’m not going to be able to sleep at all now.”

“You can sleep on the plane,” he suggested.

“Are you joking? Sleep while we’re six miles above the surface of the earth? I’m going to be looking out the window the entire time.”

“If that’s the case, you’d better sleep now, love.” He kissed me. “I can make you sleepy, if you like.” He climbed between my legs, rubbing himself against me.

I sighed, “I always like this.”

 

Wednesday, 19 October 2011 / Sherlock Holmes

Today is the anniversary of our first meeting, in 1881. Call it our one hundred and thirtieth anniversary.

The man I love is now a twenty-first century man. He is still clumsy with technology, still awed by the sights of his city changed over the years, still like a child at a theme park.

My favourite Watson moments of this century:

His face, the first time he stuck his hands under the faucet in a public restroom and water automatically came out. Once again, the automatic soap dispenser. And finally, the automatic hand dryer. (“Really, Holmes, what will your century automate next? Flushing the toilet?”) And last but not least, the auto-flushing toilet. (“Now this is progress!”)

His amazement, when he finally figured out what _gay_ means in 2010, and why telling people how gay he feels provokes such reactions. (“We had a gay time last night, didn’t we, Holmes? What? Hm. Oh. Well, I suppose both meanings apply.”)

Coming home one day and finding him watching _Billie Jean_ on You Tube, trying to learn how to moon walk. (“I’ve almost got it, Holmes! Sorry about the carpet…”)

His continuing enjoyment of “everything shops.” He never complains about buying the milk, and always picks up eleven kinds of biscuits while he’s there. And a few things he doesn’t recognise. (“I don’t know what _exfoliating cleanser_ is, but I feel like it’s something we need.” And, “How do you feel about tofu? It’s quite jiggly. Do people actually eat it?”) But complains, too, that basic Victorian necessities are not to be found. (“Thirty-seven types of shampoo, but no moustache wax? What’s _that_ about?”)

Dinner with Mycroft and his friend Thomas, a professor of history at King’s College. Thomas expounding on the Victorian legacy of prudery in our time. (Watson’s response: “Well, at least your era can say the word _leg_ without blushing.”) After saying which, he blushed.

His excitement when I took him to a Gay Pride Rally this past summer. I bought him a shirt, which he still wears. Seeing all the people, gay and straight, men and women, young and old, made him cry. (“I had no idea there were so many of us.”)

His face, the first time I kissed him in public: ten seconds of panic, ten seconds of furious blushing, and then the realisation. _This isn’t 1881._ More kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter (posted concurrently with this one)!


	23. Consulting Time Travellers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue and an extended set up for a pawky joke.

23 September 2018 / John H Watson

“Mr. Abercrombie,” said Holmes. “This is not a travel agency. We are consulting detectives, with some experience in time travel. We do not, however, arrange holidays for billionaires who have more money than they know what to do with.”

“Listen,” the man said, “There’s that guy building his own space ship, already booking flights, just because he has the money to do it. I don’t see how this is different. I just want to see Julius Caesar get stabbed or watch Nero fiddle while Rome burns. I’ve always had a thing for history, you know, and if I could just verify a few details, or maybe get an autograph or two—”

“Absolutely not,” replied Holmes.

“Temporal contamination,” I added. “Not to mention the insurance costs.”

Mr Abercrombie frowned at us for a minute, then sighed and stood. “I get it. But you’re going to have competition eventually. Somebody else is going to build a Holmes Device, and unless you’ve got a patent on it, you might as well take your profits while you’ve got a monopoly on the whole deal.”

After the door had closed behind him, I turned to Holmes. “Do you think he’s right?”

He shrugged. “I hope not. We’ve located eleven devices--”

“Holmes Devices,” I said, smiling.

“I don’t understand how it got that name,” he said. “I didn’t invent it.”

“Nobody knows who invented it,” I said. “But you figured out how to build one. Even Moriarty didn’t figure that out.”

“Yes, and that secret will stay here.” He tapped a finger to his head.

 

A clamour from downstairs reached us in our flat.

“Mr Holmes!” cried Mrs Hudson. “Dr Watson! The Vikings have arrived!”

Holmes frowned at me over his paper. “Were you expecting any Vikings?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I suppose that they are illegals.”

Before Mrs Hudson could say yea or nay, they were in our sitting room, eight Vikings in motorcycle gear.

“We beg your pardon, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said their designated leader. “I am Nils Magnusson. My men and I are seeking asylum here.”

I had arisen from my chair and was standing toe to toe with the tallest of the bunch. “I always had the impression that you Vikings were great, tall fellows — but, look! Holmes, I’m nearly as tall as this bloke!”

The vikings glowered a bit. “In the eleventh century, we were tall,” Nils Magnusson said. “When we came here, we found ourselves to be merely average.”

“A bit below, I would say,” replied Holmes, looking over the company. “Average height 172 centimetres. I myself stand at 188 centimetres. Even Watson stands at 167 centimetres.”

Nils sighed. “Nutrition then wasn’t quite what it’s been since the twentieth century. We’re wondering if you will support our petition to your government. We are seeking asylum. Though we were basically just merchants and traders in our day, we have been vilified and ostracised by others.” Tearful, he shook his head. “We were condemned for our success.”

“Well, you did quite a bit of marauding,” Holmes pointed out. “Though I am fond of pirates, I can see the point of your chrono-contemporaries. Nobody likes being raided by large, bad-smelling men. Have you found a welcome in this era?”

“As you can see, we have joined the biker community,” Nils said. “The Midlands Touring Group is sponsoring our petition.”

“I believe that you require the services of a solicitor,” I said. “Perhaps my colleague and I can refer you. You will need to prove your worth to this century if you are to be considered.”

“Doctor Watson,” Nils said. “You’ve been a refugee; you know what it’s like. This century is like heaven compared to the eleventh century.”

Sherlock gave me a look. I nodded. “My colleague and I sympathise, but the government has been quite clear on this issue. If refugees were to pour in from all eras, this heaven would become quite a hell. Hire a solicitor if you wish to contest the immigration policy.”

 

Yet again, Mrs Hudson came to the door. “There’s a lady to see you boys. She looks rather upset.”

“You may send her up, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes. “And some tea.”

“Not your housekeeper, dear.”

The woman came bursting into the room before Mrs Hudson could summon her.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “You’re the only ones who can help me!”

Holmes and I exchanged a wry look.

I invited her to sit. “Your name?”

“Marjorie Hicks, nee Ainsworth.”

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr Watson. And what seems to be the trouble, Mrs Hicks?”

“It’s my husband, Elsdon — he’s gone!”

“Gone, as in… left you? Or has he been kidnapped?”

“Neither. He fell into a portal, you know, one of those Watson portals. There’s one near where we live, and now he’s gone back in time to find his dead lover!”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Leeds. She died five years ago, just before he met me. Elsdon was still grieving, and I had just lost my dear father. Elsdon was my investment banker. We used to talk, and one thing led to another…”

“Dear lady,” I said. “There is no portal near Leeds. I’ve mapped them all, and am quite sure Mr Hicks did not simply _fall_ into one. In the first place, he would need a device. And he would create a paradox if he went back to a younger version of himself—”

“Paradox? What does that mean?”

“It means that he is lying,” said Holmes in a kind voice. “It is much more likely that your husband’s dead lover is, in fact, living, and he has been seeing her all along. Your father, Mr Ainsworth, was a wealthy man, and Mr Hicks no doubt knew this, though I doubt he is an actual investment banker. I would ask how your investments have done, but your shoes tell me that though the market has been going up, your portfolio is down quite severely.”

Perhaps she did not feel consoled by this, for she burst into tears. “But we sent flowers to her mother! We send an annual gift to the Kidney Foundation!” I urged a clean handkerchief on her.

“We can track her down for you, if you wish,” Holmes said, mustering as much sympathy as he could, though it was not much. “I think, however, that you are better off without him.”

After fifteen minutes of consolation, she finally agreed and left to seek her revenge.

 

We sat in companionable silence for a while.

“Do you think someone will eventually learn to build a Holmes Device?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The devices are secured at the Ministry of Chronological Transport. Mycroft alone has access. Others may be discovered, but it is to be hoped that the ancient practice of keeping devices away from portals has been followed.”

“The portals are not always stable,” I said. “One opened in Kent just last month. You know how carefully I did my original mapping.”

“Indeed. You were meticulous. All those in the UK have been put under surveillance, and most of those in Europe. Irene and Mary are minding the Berlin portal, and Tom agreed to continue at the Dog and Duck. The other minders are trustworthy, I think, but one never knows. In the entire wide world, there must be many Watson portals. Still, one would need both a device and a portal in order to time travel.”

“True,” I said. “It seems to be a natural phenomenon. But for a person to get possession of a Holmes device would be difficult.”

He smiled. “And other than you and I, John, nobody has yet figured out how to put a Holmes Device into a Watson Portal.”

I looked at him sharply, knowing how fond he was of innuendo and pawky humour. “We’ll keep that our secret, eh?” I said.

“Yes, love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos and for following this twisty plot over time! I have so appreciated your participation in this story.


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